You
by starbuckmeggie
Summary: New York City. 1941. The world is in chaos. What are the odds that two people would find love?
1. Chapter 1

A hot wind blows at me, making my hair whip around my face. I feel my skirt flutter around my legs; a man sitting in the doorway says something to me that I don't understand and I'm pretty sure I don't want to. I tug my skirt back down, bunching it in my hand to keep it tucked against my body. I turn my eyes down to the sidewalk and walk forward, hoping to avoid catching the eye of anyone else.

This neighborhood is so seedy. I hate that I have to walk through it every day just to get to work, but I suppose it's better than the walk home every night. That's when I stick close to the shadows of the buildings and hope for the best.

A few minutes later I look up cautiously—I don't see anyone lingering and breathe a small sigh of relief. Just ahead on the corner is the Moonlight Lounge; it's surprisingly upscale for the neighborhood.

Until a few years ago, this wasn't a bad neighborhood. The Depression has been merciless, though, and all the places I used to go when I was a kid are just in ruins now, abandoned or close to it.

I pause when I get to the employee entrance, making a face to myself. I really don't like working here. I know I shouldn't complain—honestly, I'm lucky to be working at all, and all I'm really doing is waiting tables. If my brother Ross hadn't been in here when the last girl got fired and told me they needed help, I'd still be pounding the pavement, hoping to find anything, taking odd jobs like the rest of the city. Unfortunately, a lot of the clientele is a little more…friendly than I'm comfortable with, and as the nights wear on, their hands seem to multiply, feeling that they can take whatever liberties they want whenever they want.

Still…it's a job. The pay isn't great, but it's enough to barely get by, and it means I don't have to stand in line hoping to get food.

"Hi, Monica."

I look over my shoulder, a genuine smile reaching my face. "Hi, Phoebe." Phoebe's another waitress at the Lounge, but unlike me, she doesn't seem bothered by the guys in there in the slightest. She just smiles at them, gracefully moves away from their wandering hands, and happily accepts their tips at the end of the night.

"You doing all right?"

I just shrug. "I'm already dreading how long tonight's going to be."

"It could be worse," she tells me, looping her arm through mine, leading me down the stairs to the back door. "At least they'll feed us dinner."

Every time I start to feel bad for myself, I just think about the life Phoebe's led. She's been on her own since she was about ten years old. I don't know the entire story—it seems so sad even though she never seems bothered by it—but I know that her father left when she was a baby, and her mother killed herself not too many years after that. Phoebe and her twin sister spent some time in an orphanage until Phoebe decided it would be easier out on her own. So, she left. She says she hasn't seen her sister since.

I think she's the bravest person I know.

I don't know how she's managed to survive for ten years on her own like that; I'm pretty sure that I don't want to know. Not really. But she always has a smile and a kind word, and she's been terrific about taking me under her wing to show me how things are done at the Lounge. She also looks out for me, making sure that no one gets too frisky with me.

I'm so lucky that I found her. I know she's only a few years older than me, but it feels as if she's lived a lot longer. My life feels like a walk in the park compared to hers.

Not that it's been all roses.

We walk into the dressing room of the Lounge, already crowded with the other girls, and I make a face at the racks of "uniforms" waiting for us. No dignified girl should be seen in public in something like this. Or an undignified girl, for that matter. Tiny shorts, a halter top, all of it covered in sequins. It's embarrassing; even when I was a little girl and went swimming in the river I wore more clothing than this. But Phoebe keeps reminding me—it pays our bills.

I'm sure my father would be mortified if he could see me now.

I sigh, feeling a wave of sadness wash over me as I try to find an out of the way corner to change my clothes. Phoebe just stands in front of me as she changes, blocking me from view as she casually chats with the other girls, pulling off her own clothing as if there's nothing to be ashamed of.

I pull the shorts on under my skirt and shake my head. No; my father would _not_ be pleased to see me like this, but it's not as if he left me with much choice. My mother died in early 1929, which left a huge hole in our lives—it seemed as if she was fine one day, and the next she couldn't get out of bed. She was suddenly horribly sick. Ross and I didn't know what was wrong with her—we were just told to be very quiet at home so Mother could rest. Then she was gone. Just like that. We stuck together as best as we could while our father spent more time at work; we took care of each other and we made it work.

Of course, later that year, the stock market crashed. I don't really remember it, but I was only six at the time. We all just went to school every day and life carried on as always. It was a few years before the effects of the Crash really started to hit us. My father lost his job and was suddenly at home all the time. Not that he said anything. He mostly just sat in a chair and stared at the wall for about a year.

Then he got involved in gambling.

I didn't know what was happening at the time, but I think Ross did. He tried to keep a lot of it away from me, which worked until the day my father asked me if I wanted to go see the ponies with him. I was ten—I honestly thought we were going to a farm to see horses. But that was the first time I saw a racetrack. It was also the first time I saw my father lose an unseemly amount of money betting on the wrong horse.

Unfortunately, it wouldn't be the last time.

Any money we had was funneled into gambling, my father always positive that he'd win the next one.

Then we left our little house and moved in with my grandmother in the heart of the city, all four of us cramped in one tiny apartment. Ross was forced to share a bedroom with my father—who was rarely home by that point—and I was stuck on the couch.

Even though we were crowded, things seemed to get better for a little while. Ross and I kept going to school, just another family whose life had been turned upside down by the Crash. Too many of the people we knew we living lives like ours—forced out of their homes, all of their possessions left behind, not enough food for one person let alone an entire family, clothes worn and threadbare.

One day, my father and I were walking through the park and three men grabbed him, pulling him into the bushes. I don't know what happened after that—I could hear them talking and I remember that they sounded scary, and when my father finally came back to me, his nose was bloody and his eye was swollen.

A week later, they pulled his body out of the river—it turned out that those guys were gangsters and my father had spread himself a little too thin, borrowing too much money from too many people and not ever paying it back. So he killed himself.

I was twelve. Ross was fifteen. Suddenly, we were all we had left in the world. Of course, we have our grandmother; she let us stay with her and helped take care of us, doting on Ross and telling me that the moment someone proposed to me, I was to drop out of school and get married.

She wasn't joking.

By the time I was fifteen, I was still in school even though she kept telling me that I should quit and get a job to help pay for expenses. Ross kept convincing her that I needed to be in school but it wasn't easy—he was gone a lot of the time at college, usually only coming home to sleep before heading out again. A little over a year ago he dropped out of college and enlisted. He spent most of his time in training, and my only champion was suddenly absent. I was lucky to graduate a few months later, and even luckier that Ross spends some of his free evenings here so that he could let me know about the job. Even though I still live with my grandmother, she mostly leaves me alone as long as I help out with the bills.

No—I don't think that if my father were alive that this is what he'd want for his seventeen-year-old daughter.

I tug my skimpy little top into place and step around Phoebe, smiling at her gratefully. I head over to the mirrors and fuss with my hair a little, readjusting the bobby pins on the side of my head. I'm still not used to short hair. It's been long my entire life, but about a week after I started working here, Phoebe told me I should cut it off. She told me that it would make me look older, and if I looked older then maybe the men wouldn't think they could take advantage of me as much. She taught me how to put on makeup, which makes me look older, too. Now I can hardly recognize myself when I'm at work—my eyes are usually black-lined and smoky, my lips bright red, and my cheeks rouged enough so that I have cheekbones.

I put the finishing touches on what I call my "Lounge Look," Phoebe quietly offering advice as she dolls herself up, too, and I can't help but shake my head at what I've become. True—I'm not doing anything untoward. This is a legitimate business—despite the neighborhood, the clientele is actually very upscale, most of them coming here because they find it "charming" to go to such a nice place in such a rundown area. The other waitresses and I aren't expected to do anything beyond serve food and drinks, and maybe bat our eyes at the right person, usually some military mucky-muck.

That doesn't stop me from feeling cheap every time I walk out there.

I don't know what I expected to do with my life—I don't suppose I gave it much thought while I was in school. I was more concerned about just being able to finish. Maybe part of me actually hoped that I'd meet a nice man who would decide he wanted to take care of me. I know a lot of girls decided to become teachers—I probably could have done that. At least it would have been something. Unfortunately, there was no way I could get away with being in school another day longer.

"Hey, do you think your brother will be here tonight?" Phoebe asks me as I put my hand on her shoulder, balancing myself as I gingerly slip my feet in to my high heels.

Just something else I never thought much about until I had to wear them every night—they're horrible contraptions that make my feet ache and cause blisters, but they make me stand up straight and arch my back. All part of the uniform.

I give my friend a look as I shake my head. "Why do you like to torture him?"

Her eyes twinkle as she slips on her own shoes. "Because it's so easy."

I can't argue with that. Somehow, despite our life to this point, we've both managed to stay fairly naïve; it's easy to trick either of us into just about anything, and Phoebe loves nothing more than to tease my brother mercilessly. I think she just likes to make him blush. She tells him she's doing him a favor—when he finally gets his orders and is shipped overseas, he's going to run into girls who'll do a lot worse with much less honorable intentions, so he needs to learn the tricks sooner rather than later. Maybe that's the truth, too. He seems to take it all in stride for the most part.

She likes to tease me, too, though I think it's more in a "big sister" sort of way; she's amazed that anyone could be as innocent as I am. Of course, this place is very quickly chipping away at that innocence. But, to her credit, she doesn't let anyone else make fun of me, and usually turns quite scary when someone else starts in on me.

I may look older when I'm all done up, but all of the other girls here know how young I am. I'm so very lucky that Phoebe decided she would take care of me.

As a group we head into the kitchen to pick up our trays and table assignments. The first customers of the night are already filtering in, and I can tell it's destined to be a very busy Friday night.

The first few hours are a blur, mostly filled with those who've managed to not only hold on to their money over the last decade, but who have also thrived. It's a little sickening the way they are able to throw money around as if the rest of the country isn't trying to stretch every penny or make a half-moldy loaf of bread last a week.

But I just smile; every time I start to feel frustrated with these people who come in and eat half of their meals before deciding they're full and sending the rest to the garbage, I look over at Phoebe. She doesn't let any of this get to her. I don't know how, but she doesn't. So try to take a page from her book and find somewhere in my mind that I can escape to.

I think the only consolation I get is knowing that this food doesn't really go to waste. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and a lot of people who are desperate for a meal scavenge the trash cans behind restaurants. Since we'll get fired if we're caught eating off someone's plate, no matter how hungry we may be, some of the men in the kitchen put the half-eaten plates by the back door when no one is looking. It only takes a few minutes for the scraps to be removed, and it means that someone somewhere doesn't go hungry.

Around ten, a lot of the tables are pushed off to the sides to make room for dancing. The band takes the stage, warming up, and I hide in a corner for a few minutes, balancing on one foot to take off a shoe, rubbing my sole and stretching my toes. Carefully, I switch feet, looking around to make sure no one's watching when I almost stumble.

Walking through the door is the most handsome man I've ever seen. He must be young—his uniform is just like my brother's. I put my foot back in my shoe and take a few involuntary steps forward. Even though the haze of the smoke he's perfect. Light brown hair, bright blue eyes, and my heart flutters when he smiles.

I close my mouth, feeling ridiculous. He's just a man. I look away for a moment, trying to make myself believe that before I look back to him.

He's even more dreamy the second time.

I take a shuddery breath and swallow heavily.

He grins even more broadly, flashing his shiny white teeth and for the first time in my life I think I'm about to swoon.

Then his arm reaches out and I watch him pinch the behind of the nearest waitress, Katie. I can see her make a face before she turns to him, her face transforming from total disgust to completely flattered before she turns completely. She bats her eyes at him, swatting at his arm playfully before sashaying away, her hips swinging provocatively even as her face goes back to disgust.

No matter to him; he's already reaching out for another waitress—Annie—so he can grab her, too. She jumps and wags her finger at him, and he just shrugs carelessly.

I roll my eyes, feeling disappointed. I shouldn't be; it's not as if I know the man. He's been a part of my life for less than thirty seconds and he's taken advantage of two of my coworkers. He was just so lovely when I first saw him that it's hard not to be disappointed that he's just like all the other men around here.

I start to turn away when I see my brother walk through the door and walk up behind the man; he slings his arm around the stranger's shoulders and the man grins at Ross, looking excited. Before I can move, though, he's waving me down, so I plaster on a fake smile and reluctantly head toward them.

"Monica! I want you to meet someone. This is my new friend, Chandler. Chandler, this is my sister, Monica."

He holds out his hand for me and my hand extends in return, more out of habit than anything else. "_You're_ his sister? Wow."

I'm not sure that I manage to keep the look entirely off my face this time. "Chandler—that's an…interesting name." That's about the nicest thing I can bring myself to say to him right now, but he smiles at me, and something about it looks different, though I can't figure out why. I feel my heart flutter again despite myself, the feel of his hand in mine like nothing I've ever felt before, and I drop it suddenly. "Phoebe's been wondering if you would show up tonight," I tell my brother before I turn and walk away.

I can hear Ross calling to me but I don't let myself look back. I want to see my brother but I can't bring myself to look at that _man_ for a moment longer, and not only because my heart is suddenly doing traitorous things when I see him.

Chandler.

It _is_ an interesting name.

I just shake my head. It doesn't matter. Sure, he's the most attractive man I've ever seen in my life, but I also saw his behavior when he thought no one was paying attention. I think that says a lot more about a person's character than anything else.

I really doubt this will be the nice man I've been waiting to meet; he's just another pretty boy taking advantage of the girls who fall for his sort.

Well, I'm not the girl who'll moon over someone like him.

I refuse.

I just need to forget his smile.

* * *

><p>*AN...This is something very different for me. I'm not an expert on the subject, so I apologize for any mistakes that will pop up along the way, but this is one of the eras in our history that, for better or for worse, I find incredibly fascinating. I'll keep this as anachronism-free as I can. Right now, the bulk of this is actually written, but I'll be polishing it a bit before posting each time. This will go with the same flow my other stories have-one POV, then another, back and forth. If that changes, I'll note it at the beginning of the chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

I feel unreasonably excited as I walk down the street, trailing after my new friend Ross. I haven't been out and about in what feels like forever. Basic training eats up a lot of free time.

"I think you'll really like this place," he tells me, and he sounds oddly nervous, as if he's afraid he's taking me someplace that's a snooze.

"I'm sure I will," I answer, clapping his back, grinning.

It's been months since I went anywhere that didn't involve the Navy; at first, it was because I forced myself to stay in; I avoided getting to know the men around me and declined any invitation that sounded as if it could lead to anything that would involve what I consider to be a good time.

A few weeks ago, Ross transferred into my unit and we became buddies almost instantly, and I realized how much I've missed just having a friend. A lot of the time, we just find something to occupy ourselves at the base, but he's been telling me about a place he likes to go, the Moonlight Lounge, and finally convinced me to go with him.

Not that it took much convincing on my part; I wasn't at all surprised to realize just how much I miss going out and painting the town. I'm just shocked that there's a bar in this town that I managed to miss.

It also seems that Ross's sister works at this place, though I'm not really sure if that's how he got involved with it or if she started working there because of him, but if he's all right with it…

Of course, if he doesn't mind his sister working at some bar, I _do_ have to wonder just how bad it could be. I wouldn't suppose it could be too terribly seedy.

This neighborhood sure doesn't look like much, though, so maybe there's hope.

"Tell me about this place," I ask as I step over a pile of rags…that may be a hobo. Yikes.

"It's pretty nice, actually," he starts and I feel my eyebrows shoot up. "No, seriously. I know the neighborhood is pretty rundown, but the Lounge is on the up and up."

I can't help the groan that falls out of my mouth. "Why would I want to go to a bar that's on the up and up?"

"Because the girls in there seem to like guys like us."

"'Guys like us?'"

"Military men," he clarifies. "They're all very _friendly_, if you know what I'm saying."

Hmm. Maybe it has potential after all. "Even your sister?"

He stops short, and if looks could kill, I'd be a dead man. "No, not my sister. She's a good girl."

"Then why does she work in a place like that?"

"Because the money's good and she needed a job."

I just shake my head and keep walking; I don't see how all the girls at this place are _friendly_ except his sister. It just doesn't seem likely. But if that's what he needs to tell himself, I won't be the one to shatter that illusion.

I'm sure time will tell, anyway.

Then again, I don't really know Ross's definition of "friendly." It could be wildly different than mine. Less than a year ago, I went home with just about every girl I came into contact with, all of whom seemed very friendly. But I get the impression that Ross is a touch more innocent than I ever have been. To him, maybe someone is friendly if they smile at him for too long.

"How much further?" I finally ask.

"Just about a block."

I feel myself get even more excited—I've needed a night out for far too long.

A minute later, I can hear the sounds of a band filtering out through the neighborhood and I fight to keep myself in check. The door comes into view and I hear someone call Ross's name. I fight back a groan as he stops to chat, nearly bouncing with eagerness to get my evening started. I point at the entrance and look at Ross, who waves to me, and I take that as my cue.

I walk through the door and my senses nearly explode and I sigh with relief; this is what I've been missing for so long.

The air is hazy with smoke; the chatter of the patrons can almost be heard on top of the loud swing band; couples litter the floor as they cut rugs; trays go past my face covered in drinks.

And there are girls everywhere.

_Everywhere_.

Scantily-clad, beautiful girls.

Everywhere I look, there's another one; blondes, brunettes, redheads. All of them in little bitty shorts and teeny tiny shirts; legs and arms and bosoms and…just girls.

I feel a smile spread over my face; I've _really _missed being around women.

One of the waitresses is next to me, slightly bent over the table she's talking to, and before I can help myself, I reach out and pinch her backside.

I've really missed the feel of a woman, too; they're so soft and warm and dreamy.

She bats her eyes at me seductively as she turns to face me; she reaches out and swats my arm playfully before she walks away, her hips swaying hypnotically.

She's cute. Maybe she'll let me follow her home.

My arm reaches out again, pinching another waitress that walks by—she's awfully pretty, too. She jumps and wags her finger at me. "Naughty naughty," she tells me, her voice low and raspy.

Oh, yes; she's _quite_ attractive.

I don't know what to do with myself right now; there are just so many lovely ladies that look like they need someone to show them a good time.

I feel an arm sling around my shoulders. "Told ya."

I grin at Ross. "This was a great idea."

"Hey, there she is." Before I can ask who, he starts waving his arm. "Monica!"

Suddenly, she's standing before me and for a moment, I can't breathe. She's not "cute" or "attractive" or "lovely." She's gorgeous. Completely, captivatingly gorgeous. Bright blue eyes peer at me through smoky eyes, her lips are deep red and utterly kissable, her dark, chin-length hair is all curly and looks like I could absolutely get my hands lost in it; she's tiny and petite and somehow manages to take up the entire room; everything around me fades away.

Ross's voice filters through to me. "I want you to meet someone. This is my new friend, Chandler. Chandler, this is my sister, Monica."

I hold out my hand to her, feeling my pulse quicken when her skin makes contact with mine. "_You're_ his sister? Wow."

Her nose crinkles up a little and she drops my hand, and all I want to do is figure out some way to get it back. "Chandler—that's an…interesting name." She turns and looks at her brother. "Phoebe's been wondering if you would show up tonight." With that, she turns on her heel and walks away, disappearing into the crowd.

"Monica! Where're you going?" Ross calls out. He turns and shrugs at me. "She's busy, I guess. Let's get a table." He points to the area near the bar and we start winding through people, looking for an open space.

"So, _that's_ your sister? I take it she got all the looks in the family."

"Hey," he says, sounding insulted for a moment before shrugging. "Yeah, I guess."

I look over my shoulder, trying to find her through the crush of people before I force my attention back to my friend. I need get myself under control; this dame is his _sister_. There are a dozen girls here tonight that aren't related to Ross, and I'm sure _one_ of them wouldn't mind spending some time with me. But definitely _not_ his sister.

I don't know anything about her, but I feel like she's not the sort of doll to be into "love 'em and leave 'em." No; she's the sort you want to romance for a while; you want to spoil her rotten and take care of her and make her feel like the most cherished—

I shake my head. That's not the type of girl I go for. That's not even the sort I'm interested in. Who has time for that kind of rot?

"Hey, who's Phoebe?" I ask and Ross just shakes his head, darting toward an empty table.

"She's one of the waitresses. She's a friend of Monica's that likes to pick on me."

"Pick on you about what?" I ask as we get settled in.

"Everything. Nothing. Whatever she feels like."

"Sounds like a charming girl." Out of the corner of my eye I see a woman bending over a table and my hand reaches out, my finger stroking down the seam of her nylons. She turns a moment later, resting her hand on my shoulder, leaning down a little so that I can almost see down the front of her top.

"Well, hi sailor. Can I get you something to wet your whistle?"

"I might be able to think of a thing or two," I answer, Ross looking at me incredulously. "But for now, I'll just take a bourbon."

She winks at me and turns to Ross. "How about you, handsome?"

He blinks at me a couple of times before answering. "Uh, yeah. I'll take the same."

"Two bourbons coming right up," she answers in an almost whisper, her fingers sliding through the hair at the back of my neck for a moment before she turns from us, heading toward the bar.

"How did you do that?" Ross asks, sounding stunned.

"Do what?"

"That's Marie. I haven't been able to get her to so much as look at me in the last few months. You're here for thirty seconds and she's falling all over you."

I just wave my hand at him. "That's not falling all over me."

"It is for Marie."

"Stick with me, brother," I tell him, clapping him on the back. "I'll show you how all of this works."

He cocks his head to the side. "_How_ do you know how all of this works?"

I cringe, shaking my head. "Maybe I'll tell you one day."

"Well, well, well. The prodigal son returns." I look up to see a blonde woman staring us down, Monica by her side; my mouth goes dry for a few moments. The blonde is attractive enough, but in just the minute or so since I last saw her, Monica has grown even more beautiful. I don't know how it's possible, but she is. "You too good for us, Ross?"

Ross makes a face. "Hi, Phoebe. I've been busy."

"Too busy to come visit your only sister?"

He turns to Monica. "Why are you friends with her?"

She just shrugs. "She's nice to _me_."

"Chandler, this is Phoebe," he tells me, gesturing with his head.

Her eyes meet mine. "Well, you're cute."

My eyes widen in shock for a moment before I start laughing. "I like this one."

Monica looks like she's about to respond when my view is suddenly blocked by an ample amount of cleavage, Marie's smiling face suddenly coming in to view. "Your bourbon, sailor."

I can't help myself—I reach out and stroke her arm gently and she leans just a little closer to me. I've been without a woman for too long. Monica is definitely the most beautiful creature to ever walk the planet but I'm a man; breasts in my face tend to distract me.

I hear Monica make a noise and look over Marie's shoulder. I swear I see her roll her eyes before she whips around, heading off in the other direction. Phoebe gives me an odd look for a few moments before hurrying off after Ross's sister. I make a face and look over at Ross; he's just staring at me in wonder as Marie leans on the table. I just shrug and smile up at her.

When in Rome, I suppose.


	3. Chapter 3

"Monica, Ross keeps asking for you."

"I _know_, Phoebe," I answer as I load up my tray, trying to avoid looking at her face.

"How long are you going to make me wait on him?"

"Is _he_ still out there?"

"You mean Chandler? Yes, he's still out there. He's been out there with Ross every night for the last—what has it been? Three weeks? Why do you refuse to even speak to him?"

I just shake my head, pursing my lips. I know it's not a big deal to Phoebe but it is to me. For the last few weeks, Ross has been at the Lounge every night it's been open, and his new friend Chandler has been with him. And every time I see Chandler make inappropriate moves on a girl. His hands wander frequently, almost as if he's incapable of _not_ grabbing at someone; once, he even dragged a girl onto his lap. Everyone just grins and bears it, all of us trained to handle a little bit of this sort of behavior, and at least he doesn't seem interested in anything beyond that.

Actually, I don't know if that's true. I'm just making an assumption.

All I really know is that looking at him breaks my heart. At first glance, he's so divine that I can't even look at him for more than a few seconds—I've never seen anyone who looks like he does in person. I thought men like him only existed on the screen. But then I see him manhandle one of the girls and my heart breaks in a different way, a rush of disappointment that someone like him could be that way.

When I first saw him, I instantly imagined him to be someone so sweet and gentle, so caring and sensitive, and he's not. No one who treats people the way he does could be any of those things. But I can't help but feel sad that he's just like everyone else. I would have thought my brother would be friends with someone a little more like himself.

I feel like such a child for feeling this way, as if I'm still in grammar school and he won't stop tugging on my pigtails.

It doesn't help that all I can do is stare at him. He's spoken to me a few times and I can't find a way to answer. I lose the ability to speak and no one has ever done that to me before.

I try to tell myself that it's because he makes me so mad, but I know that's not the truth. I tried waiting on him and my brother the first few times they came in, but I couldn't do much more than mumble and stutter when he made direct eye contact and I haven't been brave enough to try again, so I pass the table off to Phoebe and let her deal with him.

"Is it because he's a little handsy? Aren't they all?"

"It's disgusting," I insist, hoisting the tray into my arms. "He thinks he can just take whatever he wants. Well, I won't stand for it." I mentally cringe—I sound very high and mighty, even to myself.

"They're all like that, Monica," she answers, looking confused; it's the truth. The longer an evening lasts, the more liberties the men who remain think they can take. Unfortunately, a lot of the girls here leave with these men at the end of the night, so I don't know if I can entirely blame them for thinking we're all that way.

That doesn't mean I have to like any of it.

"I just thought that my own brother would have better taste in friends," I tell her indignantly as she holds the kitchen door for me, following me as I weave my way around the crowded dance floor. She says nothing as she helps me deliver the food to my table, smiling at the drunken officers while looking at them from under her eyelashes. They catcall and wolf-whistle at her and I can't help but feel a little exasperated. She doesn't have to say anything and these men are ready to drop at her feet. I exhaust myself trying to be charming and most times I barely get a second glance.

Phoebe reappears at my elbow as I walk away. "I think you sort of like him."

"You're whacky," I tell her, rolling my eyes. "What's to like, anyway?"

"The hair, the smile, the eyes," she answers immediately.

"Then _you_ go out with him."

She leans in to me, taking the tray from my hands as she whispers, "I'm not the one he likes."

My mouth drops open as I stare after her, watching her disappear into the kitchen.

He _does not _like me. He doesn't even know me. If he likes me at all, it's only because he seems to like all women, or maybe because I'm his friend's sister. He just likes to tease me every chance he gets because that's what he does to everyone.

"Dance?" I hear someone ask, a finger carefully tracing down my arm, and a shiver races down my spine. I've only really heard that voice a few times but I'd know it anywhere.

I turn my head and there's Chandler, head cocked to one side, crooked smile on his face, eyes as blue as the summer sky, and I feel my knees go weak.

I need to figure out how to stop that.

"I'm not allowed to dance when I'm working," I answer, averting my eyes as I step away from him. It doesn't do any good—he follows a moment later.

"I can wait."

"I don't dance."

His smile grows, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "I don't, either."

I sigh, exasperated; he really is infuriating. "Then why did you ask me?"

He just shrugs, tilting his head once more. "I thought it'd be a good way to get you into my arms."

My mouth drops open in shock before I snap it shut—I have to figure out how to stop that, too. "You're a pig."

His eyes light up again, his mouth opening to answer, but I turn and storm through the kitchen doors. "Ugh!" I exclaim.

"Boy trouble?" Phoebe asks, smirking at me.

I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Did you set me up?"

"I saw him waiting for you. I thought I would just—"

"What?" I ask, still in shock, and more than a little hurt that someone I consider my friend would do that to me. "Embarrass me? Humiliate me?"

"What did he do to you?"

I open my mouth to answer and feel my face turn red—he didn't actually do anything except ask me to dance. Well, that and tell me he wanted me to get me into his arms. "Nothing," I finally sigh. "He didn't do anything."

"You're upset—he must have done something."

"He wanted to dance with me."

She bites her lip as she smiles, but a laugh escapes her anyway, and I feel hot tears fill my eyes. I turn away from her and walk toward the dressing room. "Just forget it," I mumble as I try not to cry.

She hurries after me, following me into the changing area, closing the door behind us. "I'm sorry, Monica. I just always forget that you're only seventeen; you don't know the same stuff I do."

I cross my arms over my chest, feeling like a stupid little girl. I hate that I get so emotional about little things like this. "I'm not _that_ young and you're not _that_ much older," I tell her feebly.

"It's okay to like him, you know," she tells me softly.

"I _don't_ like him," I insist. "I don't even know him."

"You could know him."

"What's the point? All he's interested in is groping girls. I don't want to be one of them."

She tilts her head at me, and I get the feeling she knows a lot more about a lot of things than she lets on. It just makes me feel even more like I'm way out of my league. "You could make him suffer."

That gets my attention. "What do you mean?"

I see a gleam in her eyes that can only mean trouble, but I'm not sure for whom. "You could devastate him."

I just shake my head. "I still don't understand."

"Well, maybe he's harassing you because he can tell it bothers you, so…you don't let it. Or you _act_ like it doesn't bother you."

"How do I do that?"

She's nearly bouncing with excitement. "You just go out there every time you see him and flirt shamelessly."

"Phoebe…I don't know how to do that. And I don't understand how that would help anyway."

"Because you'll throw him off! He's so used to you shying away from him that he won't know what to do with himself if _you_ flirt with _him_."

I have to admit—it's not the worst idea I've ever heard. "You really think that'll work? It won't encourage him, will it?"

"I don't think he likes encouragement," she reassures me. "I think he likes girls who don't like him. If _you_ start giving it back to _him_, he'll leave you alone because he won't know what to do."

"Okay, well…how would I do this?"

She pauses for a moment, thinking it over. "Just be someone else." My eyes grow wide and I feel confused. "No, I mean, just try to _channel_ someone else. We go to the movies all the time—who's the sultriest movie star you can think of?"

I shrug slowly, searching my memory; we do see an awful lot of movies together. "Hedy Lamarr?"

"Oooo, that's a good one! So every time you see him, just be Hedy Lamarr. Give him that look that she gives every man that crosses her path. Tease him. You don't have to get too close to him, but just close enough to really make him wonder what you're doing. It'll make him crazy. Oh! You know who else you could be?"

I laugh a little at her enthusiasm. "Who?"

"Scarlett O'Hara. You could _definitely_ be Vivien Leigh."

"I guess I could do that…"

"You absolutely can!"

"And that'll make him stop teasing me?"

I swear she pauses for just a second. "Yes. I don't think he'll like you _at all_ if you flirt with him."

I feel a little flicker of doubt even as I think about Phoebe's words. Do I truly want him to stop?

No; of course that's what I want. I don't like the way he treats the waitresses and I don't need him treating me that way, too.

Even though I do like it when he talks to me just a little bit. But that's only because I like to look at him. What he says is always awful.

Though, what's really awful about wanting to hold someone in your arms?

Nothing, as long as a certain someone doesn't use that line on every girl that crosses his path.

This is for the best. I'll devastate him somehow. What I can't manage, I'm sure Phoebe will help with. Then I won't have to worry about him bothering me anymore.

Which is exactly what I want.


	4. Chapter 4

I tap my fingers absently on the bar top, waiting to settle up my tab. Another night at the Moonlight Lounge has come to a close, and I've managed to shut down the bar yet again. I figured I'd given up on that business some time ago, but…well, Monica has a way of making me want to stick around.

Even though I don't get to talk to her a whole lot, the _possibility_ of getting a few moments with her keeps me from leaving too early. Ross hit the bricks some time ago; I don't think he's ever been the sort to stay up until all hours of the night, and his Navy training has him too nervous to toe the line too much.

Not me; I don't sleep much, and to be honest, there isn't a lot I wouldn't do for a pretty girl.

So the things I'd do for a beautiful girl are almost endless.

I feel someone behind me and turn; there's Monica, placing a tray full of empty glasses on the bar, and I feel my mouth go dry. She turns toward me a little, one hand on her hip, the other arm resting on top of the bar as she looks up at me, and I feel something inside of me start to shake.

_How_ does she do this to me? In the space of about three seconds, I've been reduced to a quivering mass of nothing, and if she promised to look at me forever, I'd be more than happy to keep this feeling. Even if it meant that all I was capable of was staring at her.

"Hi sailor," she says softly, taking a tiny step closer to me.

I breathe in through my nose, catching a quick whiff of Monica before I answer. "Hi gorgeous. You doing all right this fine evening?"

She looks away from me for a moment, biting her lip, and I feel as if I could burst. "Better now that you're here."

Oh, what is she doing to me? I don't know if she spoke to me the entire evening, but with just a few words and her teeth playing with her lip, I want to fall down at her feet and promise her the world.

"Aw, shucks, ma'am," I say, grinning at her, and I immediately feel like an idiot. But she gives me a little smile, taking another small step toward me.

"The important thing is, did _you_ have a good time tonight?" Her delicate fingers rest on my arm, plucking at my sleeve.

"It was splendid," I answer, my voice suddenly much lower than normal, and her eyes meet mine again, deep blue in the dim light, and I feel myself freeze. I can't look away—I don't _want_ to look away. I take a tiny step closer to her, my eyes focused on her lips, when suddenly she's standing up straight, her hands straightening out the front of my uniform.

"Have a good night, Chandler," she tells me before turning on her heel, and I nearly gape at her as she walks away, her hips swaying gently as she disappears into the kitchen.

"C'mon, buddy, pay up."

I blink and look over to bartender, Carl, I think, and shove my hand into my pocket, pulling out a few bills. "Sorry," I mumble.

"Come back and gawk at the pretty girls tomorrow," he growls, stalking away and I shake myself out of it. Hurriedly, I walk through the front doors and cross the street. I walk down a few yards and look over my shoulder—all is quiet so I duck into the shadows and lean against the side of an abandoned building, watching the alley next to the Lounge.

Most of the girls have gone home for the evening, though I know a few of them were still cleaning up and waiting on the few remaining drunks. I'm sure I haven't missed Monica.

I pull my cigarette case and lighter out of my pocket, lighting one up and taking a long drag, blowing the smoke slowly out of my nose.

I don't particularly care if the other girls are still there or not, to be honest.

I sigh and shake my head, a little disgusted with myself. I really need to get a grip. No one's ever caught my attention the way she has, though. There's something about her that's spellbinding. When she's around, all I want is for her to pay attention to me. I do anything I can to make her look at me, though nothing I've done has been able to capture her attention for more than a few moments at a time. For a while she wouldn't even look at me at all unless I basically stood in front of her and spoke to her first. I thought she was shy until I saw her talking to just about everyone else. She's always very friendly and chatty and has a smile for everyone.

She has the world's most incredible smile—it lights up her entire face.

Until recently, she never actually smiled at me. In fact, I was pretty sure she didn't even like me until about a week ago when it seemed like her entire personality shifted toward me. All a sudden she's paying attention to me, giving me these little half-smiles and gently touching me for a moment or two; she's even gone so far as to actually pout at me once or twice.

It's stunning.

Welcome, but stunning, though I'm sure my mouth must have flapped at her like a fish for a while.

When the most beautiful woman in the world suddenly starts to pay attention to you, it's incredibly easy to be thrown for a loop.

And it's making me crazy.

I haven't even been able to make it with another girl since I met her.

Well it's not that haven't been _able_ to; I just haven't _wanted_ to.

I really thought I'd be going home with that waitress Marie the first night Ross brought me to this place. She was sending out signals left and right.

But she wasn't Monica.

None of the girls at that place are Monica.

_Why_ can't I stop thinking about her?

When it comes down to it, I've barely spoken to the woman.

She's Ross's sister for crying out loud. He's probably the best friend I've ever had and I'm falling for his sister.

I don't think I'm supposed to do that.

I can't help the way I feel, though.

I keep trying to distract myself; there _are_ a lot of awfully pretty girls that work at the Lounge, and most of them seem to like the attention I give them. I keep thinking that one of them will take my mind off of Monica and this whole thing will pass and my focus will move on to another girl.

It's been over a month; no such luck.

Every other girl in the joint is all but invisible to me. I've been vaguely aware that Marie's been throwing herself at me the last few days—it seems that not noticing her at all has thrown some sort of switch in her that makes me desirable.

I could get laid in a heartbeat.

I'm shocked to realize that I don't want to get laid. I just want to get to know Monica.

That's not like me at all.

I take another drag off my cigarette before flicking it away. The last few customers came stumbling out the front door a few minutes ago, so she _has_ to be just about finished in there.

Not that I'm waiting to talk to her.

I sigh—when did I become such a coward?

I used to be good with women.

I suppose I still am; I'm just not good with this one.

Truly, though, I just want to get to know her. Partly because she's Ross's sister, and partly because, well...she's gorgeous, and that seems like as good a place to start as anywhere.

Not to mention that I can't stop thinking about her.

I hear a door across the street creak open and take a few steps back, trying to blend in with the shadows. I watch a few of the girls emerge, most of them turning left and heading down the street; one turns right.

Monica.

I watch her go a few paces before I start creeping along my side of the street, keeping her in sight. She keeps her head down, obviously trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. For as lousy as this neighborhood is, though, there isn't a lot of action at night.

As I've discovered.

It's just possible that I've taken to following Monica home after work to make sure no harm comes to her. The first time I did it was partly out of curiosity and just plain wonder—I couldn't believe she'd walk through this area in the middle of the night on her own.

She's got gumption, I'll give her that.

I was also hoping, that first time, to get a chance to talk to her, but I lost my nerve. So I settled for just making sure she was safe.

I even let myself believe the second and third time I followed her that I wanted to talk to her. After that, I wanted to believe it was purely for her sake and to make sure she was all right.

Now I know; it's for me. Yes, I _do_ want to make sure no one hurts her, but these are a few minutes when I get to be alone with her, even if she doesn't know it.

I know that makes me a very scary sounding person, but it's the only way I can actually spend time with her, and I get to make sure she gets home in one piece.

But if a copper were to come by for some reason and see me lurking the shadows across the street from some pretty young woman, I'm sure I'd have a lot of questions to answer, and I don't think anyone would believe the answers. I doubt my CO would be happy with me, either.

And yet, I can't bring myself to stop. If my options are to walk away and not know what happens to her, or to follow her and run the risk of being caught…well, she's worth the risk.

I don't know how I know that, but I know it's true.

I can almost convince myself that it's my duty as a representative of the United States Navy to make sure a young lady gets home safely at night.

However, that would be a lot more convincing if I were actually walking with her instead of creeping along in the shadows.

I suddenly realize she's come to a stop, pulling out her keys to unlock the door to her apartment. That was fast.

She disappears through the door and I sigh. I don't know which apartment she lives in so I don't know where to look for a light coming on to make sure she's safe and sound. I don't even know if she _would_ turn on the lights when she got home. Maybe she has roommates who go to bed earlier than her. Maybe she has a boyfriend.

I shudder a little. No, she couldn't. I don't see her as the type to live with a boyfriend like that. Besides, even if she did, what sort of fella would he be to let his girl walk home alone in the middle of the night? Not the sort she should stick around with, if you ask me.

I don't think Ross would let her be with a guy like that, either. I don't know how much say he has in her life, but he seems to care enough about her that he'd have a lot to say on that matter.

I realize I've been staring at her building for far too long and force myself to turn away. I know I should be getting back, but I'm restless. I'm still not really used to going to sleep before sunrise. Lucky for me I can function on very little sleep, but it makes for some very long days.

I reach a doorway and turn in, carefully climbing the dark, creaky stairwell. As far as I can tell, there has been nothing positive to come out of this Depression, but the closest I've found is that I wander through old buildings on occasion, which gives me something to do. Usually, though I find myself on a roof, staring out over the city. Up high at night, everything looks normal. I can't tell that most of the people out there are jobless or hungry or homeless or all of those things; everything looks peaceful and normal. From up there, there's no war going on in the world, knocking at our doorstep.

That thought makes me close my eyes for a moment as I come to a complete stop. I take a few deep breaths and force myself to finish walking up the stairs until I get to the roof.

I'm such a coward; I don't _want_ to serve my country like this. I sure as hell don't want to go to war. I read enough about the Great War in grammar school to know that it's something I want nothing to do with. The thought of being shipped off to some other part of the world scares me in ways that should embarrass me. Ross doesn't seem bothered by it; he seems proud to be part of the Navy and ready to go wherever the brass tells him at the drop of a hat.

I'm only doing this because I'm being forced to.

It's not that I don't love my country; I just don't want to die for it.

I perch on the edge of the roof, bracing my back against a chimney and stare forlornly out at New York. This isn't the life I wanted. Hell, this isn't the life I was supposed to have. I got myself into it, though, and now I'll have to see it through to the end.

I just have to pray that the end isn't as final as it seems right now.

* * *

><p>*AN...the reviews, guys. Wow. Thank you. Your feedback does wonders.

And to Kel, who inspired me to add a little sum'in sum'in to this without even realizing it.


	5. Chapter 5

I hate walking home at night. It's only about ten blocks from the Lounge to my grandmother's but in the middle of the night, it feels like an eternity. I just try to pay attention to my surroundings while walking in the shadows. It's been working so far, but it still scares the bejesus out of me.

My mind instantly goes to Chandler; every spare moment I have, my mind devotes to him. It's obnoxious, especially right now when I should be concentrating on just getting home, but…no.

Over the last few weeks, I've been trying to do what Phoebe told me; I've been trying to be flirtatious and sexy and coy and any other thing that I most definitely am _not_ when I'm around Chandler. I've started waiting on him again and I've been trying to speak to him. I still don't have much luck with that unless he's exasperated me once again, but Phoebe tells me that short answers are better anyway—it will keep him intrigued. I don't know if she's right about this, though. He still likes to tease me, but I have noticed that when I go to his table, he stops grabbing at the other girls. I'm not sure if that's entirely the purpose of this whole sham, though. I was hoping he'd leave me alone, but now he seems more focused on me than ever.

I hate that I like it. I've never been able to do that to someone before and for the first time, I'm almost having fun at work. My tips are getting bigger, too. I think trying to be Lauren Bacall is affecting my overall personality, and Phoebe tells me it's a good thing—I can "work Monica," who leans just a little too close to some of the men, who smirks at the comments they make and who doesn't immediately get offended.

It _did_ seem to throw Chandler off a bit at first. He seemed stunned that I was even speaking to him. But I think Phoebe was wrong about this—he's always waiting outside the kitchen for me to ask me to dance or to sit with him, even though he must know that my brother would kill him if he found out about it.

I don't know why I haven't told Ross yet. Maybe it's because he seems to be having such a good time with Chandler, and he spent so much time taking care of me when we were growing up that he deserves to have a little bit of fun, especially since he could receive his orders at any time and be shipped off to one of the four corners of the world.

I shiver at that thought. I'm so proud of my brother for doing his duty and enlisting, but the thought of him in combat fills me with a dread I've never known.

I don't know what I'd do if I lost him.

I pause for a second, coming to a complete stop while I hold my breath, listening. I could have sworn I heard footsteps behind me, but now there's nothing but silence. Cautiously, I take a few more steps but can only hear myself; it must have been my own footfalls echoing off the buildings.

I still can't figure out _why_ I'm so bothered by Chandler. Most of the men who walk through the door of the Moonlight Lounge will pinch a girl's behind or grab her arm or find some way to touch her, and none of them bother me as much as seeing _him_ do it. The worst he's done to me personally is run a finger down my arm. What's so horrible about that?

It's horrible because of what he does to everyone else.

Or is it horrible because I don't want him to pay attention to anyone but me?

That's…that's not true. I don't want the attention of someone like that, not outside of work, anyway.

Then why am I in such a tizzy over this?

I hear a rock kick behind me and my entire body freezes for a moment before I start walking double-time. Someone's back there.

My heart starts to slam against my chest.

I've been walking this path for a few months now without any real incident. A few catcalls in the afternoons is as much as I get.

Now I'm being followed.

I feel tears prickle the corners of my eyes as I walk faster, and I can suddenly hear very clear footsteps behind me, their pace matching mine. I hear a voice call out to me and I break out into a run, hitching my skirt up against my legs.

I can still hear a voice behind me, but my heart pounding in my ears is louder. I push myself to go faster, praying that I don't stumble.

I don't know what'll happen if I fall.

I feel a hand on my arm all of a sudden and I scream as I'm turned around, my eyes shut tight against my attacker. In an instant the hand disappears and I can hear someone talking to me. "Whoa! Monica, calm down!"

Even though my body's still shaking, I realize that my would-be attacker knows my name.

What's more than that, the voice is familiar. I crack open one eye, and even in the dim lights of the occasional hobo fire in some of the buildings, I recognize him.

Chandler.

"What?" I'm startled beyond words.

He just grins at me sheepishly. "Sorry about that. I just—"

My blood boils suddenly and all I can see is red. I feel my arm go back an instant before my fist connects with his jaw, his face stunned as he stumbles backward into the street.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" I yell, and I'm vaguely aware of pain radiating through my knuckles.

He stares at me in shock, his hand rubbing his jaw. "Why did you hit me?"

"Why were you chasing me?"

"I wasn't _chasing_ you." He pauses for a moment, opening his mouth, moving his jaw back and forth carefully. "I was following you."

My mouth opens and shuts a few times as I try to figure out what to say. "How is that better?!"

"No, I just…I mean, I didn't…I'm not…" He sighs, dropping his chin to his chest. "I just wanted to make sure you got home all right."

"So you _followed_ me? Do you have any idea how scared I was?"

"I wanted you to be safe. I didn't mean to scare you. I didn't scare you any of those other nights." He cringes and it takes me just a moment longer to understand what he's saying.

"You've followed me before?"

"Uhhh…maybe. Just once or twice."

I look at him suspiciously. "How often is 'once or twice'?"

"Just, you know, everynightsinceImetyou," he says in a rush, avoiding my eyes.

I actually stagger back a few steps—not if I had a million guesses would I have _ever_ guessed that. I clench my fists and cry out in pain. He jumps to action, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket. He carefully takes my hand in his, wrapping my fingers delicately. I whimper in pain and he looks up at me for a second, wincing with me, and I'm startled by just how close he is, how I can see how blue his eyes are even in the dark, and how he smells completely wonderful. My mouth goes dry so I flex my fingers just a little, the pain jolting me out of my stupor.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly, his fingers gently running over the back of my hand.

I nod, even though I honestly don't know. I chance looking up at him again and see blood trickle out the corner of his mouth. "Are you?" Without thinking about it, I lift the hand covered in his handkerchief to his lip, dabbing gently at the blood. He flinches a little but smiles nonetheless.

"I'm not made of glass. You have a hell of a right hook, Monica."

"You really scared me! All I could hear was someone behind me—"

He puts his hand on my arm and I fall silent. "I didn't mean anything by it. If I _had_ been stalking you, I would definitely think twice before trying anything funny."

I move my hand away from him abruptly, biting my lip as even that motion makes my hand throb. "You _were_ stalking me."

He opens his mouth to answer then looks around for a few moments. "Will you come with me, please?"

I can't help but laugh a little. "You're dotty."

He holds up his hands in surrender. "I'm on the up-and-up, I swear. But I don't want to talk to you in the middle of the street. A cop comes by, he might get the wrong idea." I raise an eyebrow at him, but his face looks completely sincere. "Just a few minutes. Please."

I feel my stomach turn over a little and I suddenly have trouble swallowing. Why does he get to me this way? I nod slowly and he takes my uninjured hand, leading me across the street, and for a few moments, all I can think about is the way our hands fit together perfectly.

He pushes through the doorway to an old building and I come to a stop, his arm tugging at me for a second. "I don't think so."

"Trust me."

"Why?"

"Gee; you don't give a fella anything, do you?"

"I barely know you and you're asking me to walk into an abandoned building with you in the middle of the night."

I can see his teeth gleam in the dark as he smiles. "Your brother trusts me. Your _country_ trusts me. They think I'm an all right kind of guy."

I don't know how to argue with that, nor do I necessarily want to. Instead, I take a tentative step forward and he slowly leads me up the stairs, feeling his way along the wall until we reach a door. I hear it creak open and he pulls me out on the roof, and I look around in wonder. I've never seen New York from this high before. Truthfully, I've never thought about it. But from up here I can see across town, lights twinkling in the windows of buildings like stars. For a few moments the rest of the world fades away—all the poverty, the crime, the hunger, the sadness, the troubles with the rest of the world, all of it—and everything feels perfect.

His hand comes to rest on my shoulder and I step away from him, the moment broken. "Why have you been following me?"

"I just wanted to make sure you were getting home safe."

"Then why didn't you tell me that from the get-go?"

"Would you have even listened?"

I bite my lip for a moment—I don't know that I realized my disdain had been that apparent. "I don't know."

He moves to stand in front of me, and up here in the moonlight, I can see his face and just how earnest he looks. "It was an accident at first. I swear. I was outside of the Lounge and I saw you leave through the side door, then you walked down the street alone. Monica, _I_ don't feel comfortable in this neighborhood at night, so I can't imagine how you manage it. I just knew I had to make sure you were safe."

"But why, though?"

"Well, at the beginning, it was because you're Ross's sister, and Ross has been a really good friend to me. But now…I find you absolutely fascinating."

I feel my cheeks turn red and I avert my eyes, looking out over the city once more. "You couldn't possibly. You hardly know me."

"That's part of the fascination. All I wonder when I look at you is how someone like you wound up in a place like that."

"Necessity is the mother of invention," I remind him, and he gives me a half nod.

"Maybe, but you don't belong there. You're too good for it and everyone knows it."

"What other options do I have?" I ask defensively, putting my hands on my hips for a moment before my knuckles throb fiercely. I feel my eyes water I and cross my arms over my chest. That doesn't hurt as much.

"None," he answers simply. "I know that there are no jobs out there right now. I know you work at that place because it pays the bills the same as anyone else with a horrible job. But it fascinates me that this isn't the life for you—everyone knows it, but you do it anyway. That's admirable."

I want to correct him, let him know that I don't really have a choice in the matter, but I keep my peace, waiting.

"I just like to make sure you're safe. This isn't the safest place to live, and it's even worse for a girl your age to walk through at night on her own. So I've been following you home at night, just to make sure nothing happens." He pauses for a few moments, keeping eye contact with me despite the dim light. "Is that okay?"

"Will you stop if I ask you to?"

I can see him fighting a smile. "Probably not."

I feel myself smile despite myself. "Then I suppose I'll have to live with it, won't I?"

"I can keep following you home at night, if you want. Or we could walk together."

"We'll see."

We look at each other for a while longer, and it's easy to forget the sort of things I see him do at the Lounge when he's smiling at me like a little boy; he once again looks like the sweet and innocent guy I first thought him to be.

That's enough to jar me back to reality. "I don't know that I'm safer walking with you, actually."

He looks stunned and a little hurt. "Why would you say that? I've never hurt you. You won't even talk me half the time."

"I've seen the way you treat the other girls." I can feel my face turning red but I make myself say it anyway. "It's disgusting."

"What do I do?" He seems genuinely confused, which almost makes it worse.

"You grab at _everyone_. The minute a girl turns her back, you're pinching her. Do you truly think we enjoy that? You yourself just acknowledged what a horrible job it is; why would you make it worse?"

He turns away from me, his arms crossing over his chest; he looks ashamed and self-conscious. "I guess I didn't realize what I was doing. It's been a while since I've been somewhere like the Moonlight Lounge and I got excited. I suppose I thought that's what was expected there. I guess I'm wrong?"

I shrug a little, my heart going out to him just a tiny bit. "You're probably not wrong. We all deal with it."

"But you found it offensive when _I_ did it?"

"I find it offensive no matter who does it. I just thought a friend of my brother's would have better manners than that."

"I do," he insists, turning back to me; his eyes grow wide for a second and he pauses before giving his head a little shake. "I do have better manners than that. I wasn't raised to be barbaric, I promise. Give me another chance and I'll prove it to you." He takes a few steps closer, his eyes traveling over my face. "Wow," he whispers.

I duck my head self-consciously. "What?"

"Nothing. I've never seen you without all that makeup on, that's all."

I tuck my hair behind my ear and peak up at him. "Does it look bad?"

"Not at all. You just look so young."

"I look old at work?"

"Older," he concedes. "You look older. How old _are_ you, Monica?"

I glare at him, putting my hands on my hips, biting back a yell at the movement of my battered knuckles, trying not to let him know how much it hurts. He winces at me in sympathy anyway. "How old are _you_?" I ask defiantly, and he gives me a tiny smile.

"Twenty-one."

"Oh."

"So…"

"I'm seventeen."

"Wow," he whispers again, and I before I can help myself I reach out with my good hand and punch his arm. "Oww!"

"Knock it off."

"All right—fine! You're seventeen but we won't talk it about. If I promise to behave better will you let me walk you home after work from now on?"

"You promise?"

He holds his hand over his heart, and he looks sincere. "I promise."

"And will you stop teasing me all the time?"

"I don't tease you."

"Yes, you do! You're always harassing me and asking me to dance and—" I cut myself off, knowing I sound ridiculous, and that's when I realize this is the longest conversation we've ever had. It's actually the only conversation we've ever had. I'm surprised to realize just how easy it is to talk to him, at least when he's not being a letch.

"You're not much better, you know," he says finally, looking wounded.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Are you serious? All of a sudden you're…you're…you're flirting with me. You keep teasing me and giving me these looks and I don't know what you're trying to pull, but…"

I feel my face heat up and I look away from him, suddenly ashamed. "I thought…that if I tried to be aggressive toward you that…that maybe you would stop picking on me."

"Monica." When he says nothing else, I drag my eyes back to his. "I'm sorry if it felt like I was harassing you. I didn't mean to and I never wanted to upset you. I'm just trying to be your friend. Maybe I'm not that good at it, but that's what I'm trying to do. Just give me a chance to show you that I'm a good person."

I cradle my sore hand against my chest, considering his words before I turn and head to the door to the stairs, pausing to look over my shoulder. "I thought you wanted to walk me home."

He grins in relief and trots over to me, holding the door open for me. "Thank you."

"So, do you spend a lot of time up here?" I ask as we make our way down the stairs; I can feel his fingertips on my shoulder, though I'm not sure if it's to make sure I don't fall or to steady himself.

"A fair amount. It's quiet up here; I have time to think and I can watch the city."

"You're like that guy from the comic books."

"Which one?"

"The one who dresses in black. Oh, what's his name? I think he flies, he has a mask…"

"The Bat-Man? I can live with that. He's sort of a hero."

"Sort of a hero," I echo as we reach the street. "Is that what you imagine yourself to be?"

"Not really. I think I'm just an average Joe who wants to make sure his friend's little sister gets home safe at night." Tentatively, he puts his hand on my arm, and this time I don't pull away. I let him walk me down the street in companionable silence for a while.

"I'm sorry I punched you," I finally say softly.

He nudges me with his shoulder, and I look up at his smiling face. "I'm not."

* * *

><p>*AN...I just want to say thanks to Chrisi for always beingn so sweet and kind and for always having a nice word to say. I don't deserve someone as cool as you in my corner, but I'm glad you're there.


	6. Chapter 6

Life feels a little bit better now that Monica's not pretending that I don't exist. She also seems to have stopped with odd flirting, which makes me wonder if it was something she was doing on purpose. No matter, though, because I much prefer the way she's behaving now.

It all feels very tentative right now—this is the first time I've seen her since she decked me—but I think we might be on the road to friendship.

I rub my hand over my jaw carefully. Boy, does it smart. I didn't know she had it in her, honestly.

I grin, even though it pulls my bruised skin even tighter across my face. That Monica is one feisty little dame.

And only seventeen. I did not see that one coming. Ross never mentioned if she was younger or older, and I just assumed, because of where she works, that she was my age or even a little older. All that makeup and the dark lighting goes a long way to hiding her true age.

She's far too young to be working like she does, though. At seventeen, she should get the chance to go to college and have boys court her and take her to dances. She shouldn't be dressed in far too little clothing while old men leer at her night in and night out.

It's not my business, though. I don't know much about their family situation—Ross has never offered and I've never pried—but I'm assuming that she works here because she has to, not because she wants to.

I see her walk out of the kitchen and I sit up a little straighter. I know she's not coming over to see me—even though it's only Tuesday, the joint's pretty packed and she's up to her elbows in tables—but I can't help but feel a little excited anyway. She's been keeping her eye on me, making sure my drink's always to my liking, offering me careful little smiles, and I know she's making an effort.

I am, too. My hands have been in my lap the entire night unless I'm holding my drink. I haven't made moves on a single other girl; I want Monica to know that I meant what I said and that I'm not some animal that can't control himself. I want to show her that I'm a good guy.

Well, at least that I _can_ be a good guy.

I just want her to know that she can trust me and that if I make a promise, I'll keep it.

I give myself a little shake as I realize she's disappeared again. I told her I want to be her friend and I have to stick with that. I can't keep mooning over her. She probably needs a friend more than anything else at this point, anyway. I can do that for her. I can be like her big brother; I can make sure that no one messes with her or hurts her.

I can and I will.

Besides; not only is she Ross's sister, she's his _little_ sister. He probably helped raise her. I know he's protective of her, but probably even more so than I ever would have suspected. If he ever had an inkling that I've entertained less than pure thoughts about her, he might actually kill me. It would probably ruin our friendship, and he's the first real friend I've had in a long time.

I couldn't do that.

I take a sip of my drink and look around the crowded bar; still no sign of Ross. He said he was going to be late, but this place is actually a little boring without someone to keep me company. I think I'd even settle for Phoebe hurling insults at me right now, but I haven't see her all night, either.

I chuckle a little. It's a lot of fun to watch her pick on Ross, though. Somehow, he never sees it coming. Maybe he's an eternal optimist or maybe he just likes the abuse. Who's to say? Phoebe seems to be a good friend to Monica and that's probably the only thing that concerns him.

"Speak of the devil," I mumble to myself, lifting my hand when I finally see Ross walk through the door. He nods his head to me, and out of nowhere, Phoebe appears at his side. I laugh to myself as I see his face go blank, probably trying not to react to whatever dose of vitriol he's receiving right now. Once they reach the table, I barely have time to utter a greeting before Phoebe's mouth opens in shock.

"Yow, Chandler. What happened to your face?"

"He got punched," Ross answers, smirking at me as he sits down.

"You got punched?" she echoes, looking shocked. "What did you do?"

"I was scary," I answer noncommittally.

She rolls her eyes at me and shakes her head. "What did you do that was scary?"

I nod over her shoulder. "Why don't you ask your friend?"

"My friend?" She looks behind and sees Monica approaching. "Why would I ask Monica?"

"Just a thought."

"Monica, why would Chandler tell me to ask you about him being punched?" She shrugs as she stands between me and Ross, giving her brother an affectionate pat on the shoulder with her good hand.

"Probably because I'm the one who punched him."

I fight back a laugh as I watch Ross and Phoebe's mouths drop open in shock. I sneak a peek at Monica and see she's not fairing much better herself.

"_You_ punched Chandler?" Ross asks incredulously, and she manages to shrug casually. "_Why_?"

"Because he followed me home and scared me half to death."

Ross whips his face around to me, his eyes narrowing suspiciously, and I involuntarily rear back in my chair. Monica's hand rests against my chest a moment later, trying to calm me. "Why were you following her?"

"He saw that I was walking alone and wanted to make sure I was safe and he startled me. So I punched him. I didn't mean to."

"So _that's_ why your knuckles are all mangled!" Phoebe exclaims, reaching across the small table and grabbing Monica's right hand, making her hiss in pain. I pull out my handkerchief as I down the rest of my drink, dumping the ice into the small piece of material. I gently grab Monica's extended arm and bring her hand down to the table, pressing the ice against her knuckles. She flinches for a moment before smiling at me gratefully.

I look up and notice Ross and Phoebe giving me odd looks. "What? My jaw is the reason her hand hurts—the least I can do is try to help."

Ross nods slowly, but the look Phoebe gives me is one I can't read; Monica doesn't seem to notice either of them. "I should try to look like I'm taking your orders," she tells us. "I don't want to get in trouble for 'fraternizing excessively.'"

"Then maybe you should actually take our orders," Ross teases. Monica gives Phoebe a look, and Phoebe swipes at Ross's arm for her friend. His mouth drops open in shock. "What was that?"

"Teamwork," Phoebe answers.

"Hey, I have an idea," I say suddenly, readjusting the ice on Monica's fingers.

"What's that?" she asks, and I feel her lean against my arm just a little; I nearly forget what I was going to say.

"Well, I was thinking that maybe it'd be nice if the four of could do something together away from this place."

"Why would I want to spend my free time with _him_?" Phoebe asks, cocking her head in Ross's direction.

"Because Monica's your friend and he's her brother," I answer; Phoebe lifts an eyebrow at Monica.

"Did you punch some sense _into_ this one, by chance?"

"It's possible," she answers before I have a chance to be offended; I just wrap her sore hand in both of mine, keeping the ice in place. "What did you have mind, Chandler?"

"Well, maybe after you gals get off work some night, we could all head down to this diner that Ross and I pass on the way here. It's open all night and looks like a real greasy spoon. I bet the coffee's strong enough that it doesn't need cups."

"I don't really like coffee," Monica answers and I give her my most put upon sigh.

"You don't have to drink coffee if you don't want to," I assure her. "I just thought it might be fun to get to know each other outside of this place. If it's a bad idea—"

"I like it," Phoebe interrupts. "I'm usually too wound up to go right to sleep after work. It might be nice to spend some of that time with other people."

I look over at Ross, who shrugs as he nods. "Yeah, that could be all right. I mean, maybe on a Friday or Saturday because we have to get up so early during the week, but we could do that."

I nod along with Ross even though I know the time of day makes no difference to me. "Monica?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I could do that. I've never had greasy diner food before."

"Good! And maybe we could all actually talk for once instead of trying to hold two or three minute conversations like this."

"Speaking of," Monica says, gently pulling her hand from mine and unwrapping my handkerchief. "Drinks?"

"I'll have the same," I answer, dumping the nearly-melted ice back in my glass.

"Bourbon and ginger," Ross answers.

"I'll be back in a minute," she tells us as she walks off toward the bar. Phoebe gives us a little wave before heading back to her tables, and I feel Ross's eyes on me.

"Yes?" I answer slowly, carefully shifting my gaze to him.

"Why were you following my sister home?" he asks, his voice almost menacing.

"This is a bad neighborhood, buddy. I'm sure you've noticed. It's no place for a young girl to be alone at night."

"I thought she walked home with some of the girls."

I shrug, realizing she must have told him this lie to keep him off her back. "She probably does," I answer. "But I guess her usual companion wasn't available. I just happened to see her walking by herself." Part of me hates lying to my friend, but ultimately it's for the greater good. I'm not going to be the one to rat out Monica to her brother. "I figured I'd try to make sure she was safe. And by the way, why didn't you ever tell me she's only seventeen?"

He looks a little stunned. "I don't know; I never thought about it. Why does it matter?"

"Isn't she a little young to be working in a place like this?"

"She's out of high school," he answers defensively. "Our grandmother won't let her go to college. She told Mon that she _had_ to get a job. This may not be my first choice of jobs for my little sister, but it's better than panhandling, and at least I can keep an eye on her, make sure she's all right."

I nod, but I don't press the issue. Her grandmother? No parents? I'm realizing there's a whole lot more to Ross and Monica than meets the eye, and more than ever, I want to know more about this fascinating woman.

…Girl.

…No; woman.

I shake my head to myself, steering the conversation toward our day in training, knowing it'll make Ross forget all about me and the odd new relationship I've struck with his sister.

*A/N…it's shorter than the last, but it'll be all right. People have been asking about TCL and I'm just blocked on it. I haven't given up on it, but I don't know where to go with it right now. Suggestions are welcome but not an obligation. I love writing about the holidays with the Bing family, but I don't want it to seem like I'm writing the same thing over and over again.


	7. Chapter 7

"Bye, Grandma," I call over my shoulder as I rush out the door, pausing at the stairs to pull on my shoe impatiently. I bolt down the stairs in a way that I'm sure would horrify my grandmother, skirt flying everywhere, my already disheveled hair getting worse with each step. I burst through the door of my apartment building and almost run into Chandler, who looks surprised but pleased as he catches me.

"Nice to see you, too," he tells me with a grin.

"Hi!" I exclaim, bouncing up and down as I grab his arm. "Where're we going, where're we going, where're we going?"

"Nowhere _near_ as exciting as you think."

"Don't be such a stick in the mud, Chandler. The weather is beautiful and we both have the entire day free. What's not to be excited about?"

He gives my arm a squeeze but says nothing; I'm nearly skipping beside him. I probably look closer to twelve or thirteen with the way I'm behaving, but at the moment, I truly don't care. It's early August but the oppressive heat broke a few days ago; the air around us is no longer sticky and the breezes that blow down the streets are still hot, but bearable.

And Chandler has turned out to be one of the greatest friends I could have.

My heart still flutters every time I see him, but I keep pushing that away. He is without a doubt the most handsome man I've ever laid eyes on—even more so now that I get to see him in the daylight—but he's also incredibly sweet and caring.

Just as I suspected the first time I saw him.

True to his word, he immediately stopped behaving poorly at the Lounge and hasn't laid a hand on a woman since then unless it's been to catch her if she stumbles. He walks me home every night, and I feel infinitely safer knowing he's there. Both of us usually have Sundays free, so we spend that time together, too, with Ross and sometimes Phoebe. Today, though, it's just us.

I'm unreasonably excited.

"Please, Chandler? Can you tell me what we're doing? Please please please?"

He wraps his arm around my neck, ruffling my hair and I shriek more out of habit than concern. "Where's the fun in that?"

"Do you want to listen to me carry on for however long it takes us to get where we're going?" I poke his side and he jumps away, laughing a little.

"It's right under your nose, doll."

I pause for a moment, looking at him in confusion, but he just walks on, knowing I'll catch up to him. "What's that supposed to mean?" I take a couple of quick steps, sliding my arm through his once more.

"You're not terribly observant, are you?"'

"Chandler," I whine. I know I sound like a petulant child, but he seems to live to torture me. No wonder he and Ross get along so well.

"Monica," he mocks, and I see him grin at me out of the corner of his mouth.

"Watch it, buddy boy, or I'll deck you again."

His arm untangles from mine and he rubs his hand over his jaw instinctively. "Wouldn't want that."

He had quite the bruise on his jaw for about a week after that night, and told anyone who asked—with pride—that I was the one who'd done it. He had no shame in being punched by a girl, which is just another thing I like so much about him. My knuckles were swollen for a while, too, and every time he ordered a drink, he'd wrap the ice in a napkin and hold it to my hand for as long as I could get away with.

He's definitely one of the sweetest fellas ever.

"We're going to Central Park," he finally admits, and I give him a little nudge.

"And…?"

"What makes you think there's an 'and'?"

"Because there is."

"You think you're smart, doncha?"

"You're just easy to read," I answer. "And…"

He holds up his left hand and I see a couple of pairs of roller skates dangling from his fingers. I gasp, jumping up and down again. "I did good, right?"

"I haven't gone roller skating in years!"

"Neither have I, but I used to do it all the time when I was a kid."

"You're such an old man now, of course."

He pushes my back playfully as we walk into the park, steering me over to a bench. He clamps his skates over his shoes expertly; I flinch a little as mine dig into my toes, but it seems like a small price to pay. He hops off the bench, turning in a couple of quick circles while I stare incredulously.

"These aren't bad," he tells me as he skates back and forth in front of me.

I push my feet back and forth, trying to remember the feel of being on wheels. "I thought you said you haven't skated since you were a kid."

"I haven't." He grins at me mischievously. "But I was really, _really_ good. Come on!" He grabs my hands, pulling me to my feet while I yelp. I immediately stumble into him, my skates almost flying out from under me.

"Well, I wasn't, so go easy on me."

"Where's the fun in that?" He grabs my hands and starts pulling me along, my entire body tense. "Relax a little."

"I can barely skate forward and you're going backward!"

"I won't let you fall," he assures me.

"What're you going to do when I trip you anyway, tough guy?"

"It won't be the first time you've injured me."

I glare at him playfully. "If I knew how to stop, you'd be in so much trouble right now."

He slows down a little. "Bend your legs a little, Monica. You're going to fall over like a tree." Carefully, I bend my knees a fraction, staring down at our feet. "Look at me. Look down, fall down."

"Did you teach this at some point?"

He chuckles at me, looking over his shoulder for a moment to make sure he knows where he's going. "I may have had lessons when I was growing up."

"Roller skating lessons?"

"Ice skating, actually."

"I've never been ice skating." Wow—lessons in ice skating. He probably grew up with money; it makes me realize how little I actually know about him. I open my mouth to ask him about it but he cuts me off.

"If I'm still around this winter, I'll teach you how." I stumble into him and he stops, catching me. "You all right?"

I just nod weakly. "Yes." Slowly, he starts skating again, but my mind is suddenly a million miles away. It's easy to forget that he and my brother are actually in the Navy and could be given their orders any time.

My heart thumps erratically in my chest and I bite my lip to keep the tears at bay. What a horrifying thought. I know America hasn't entered the War, but if all the news reports are to be believed, it's inevitable. The world is in chaos and it's only a matter of time before we're dragged into it.

I hope it's all wrong, though. I can't stand the thought of my brother _or_ Chandler being shipped off somewhere, only hearing from them once in a while, never knowing if something's happened…it makes me dizzy with panic.

He comes to a stop again, taking my face in his hands, dragging my eyes to his, and for a few moments, in spite of everything, my heart pounds for an entirely different reason. "Monica?"

I shake my head. "I'm fine."

"I don't think you are. What's wrong?"

I swallow heavily, turning my eyes from his. "It's just scary to think about." I stumble again, but he grabs my shoulders before I can go very far. "I know there's a lot going on in the world right now," I whisper. "But right now it feels so far removed, like it's a book or a movie and it's not real. But…I know people who could be shipped off at any time and that makes so very real. I can't really comprehend how big all of this is, but…" I feel a tear trickle down my cheek and I swipe at it angrily. I have so little free time, and even less free time to spend with my friends, and I don't want to ruin it by worrying about what _might_ happen.

Even though it doesn't feel like a "might;" it feels like a "going to."

One of the biggest drawbacks to working in a place that a lot of military men frequent is the amount of information one can overhear. I'm sure none of it is sensitive, but just the discussions they have over drinks are enough to turn your hair white. The thought of anyone I know being involved in that, of risking their lives for it makes me want to vomit. I know they're doing their duty to the country and I'm so unbelievably proud of my brother and Chandler for being so brave, but I'm a selfish child who doesn't want to lose what's left of her family. I want to keep them all safe with me.

Chandler just wraps his arms around me, resting his chin on top of my head. I feel my tears melting on his shirt and sniffle as quietly as I can. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I didn't mean to…"

I can feel him shake his head and he strokes my hair. "It's okay," he answers softly. "It scares me to think about it, too. I feel like I'm in limbo, just waiting for something to happen or for someone to tell me where to go. It's absolute hell. But that's why I'm trying to make every single second count. I'm having fun as often as I can and spending as much of my time with the people I care about as the world will allow. I don't know what will happen tomorrow so I _have_ to live for today. And today…" He pulls back from me, cupping my face in his hands again, wiping my tears with his thumbs. "Today, we skate."

I let out a watery laugh, nodding. "We skate."

"You ready to try it on your own?"

Just the thought makes me almost trip over my own feet. "You're whacky."

"That I am. Here; hold on."

I raise my eyebrows but keep my arms around him. I feel him shift his legs and we start turning in slow circle. He pushes us forward in an awkward waltz in the middle of Central Park and I can't help but grin. "We're dancing."

"We are."

"But you don't dance."

"Eh. I like to save it for special occasions. You said you didn't dance, either, but look at you now. You're a regular Ginger Rogers."

I snort a little as I try to contain my laughter. "Somehow, I don't think I'll be tap dancing on roller skates, though."

"You never know."

"I think that Fred and Ginger are the only two who could do that. I'd break my ankle."

He smiles down at me, taking my left hand in his right, pointing them out in front of us. "What was that song they sang?"

"While they were skating? Ummm…" I haven't seen a Fred and Ginger movie in a while, and they all blur together at parts. "You say 'eether' and I say 'either.' You say 'neether' and I say 'neither.' Eether, either, neether, neither, let's call the whole thing off."

"That's the one," he tells me as he spins us around again. "You like 'potato' and I like 'potahto.' You like 'tomato' and I like 'tomahto.' Potato, potahto, tomato, tomahto, let's call the whole thing off."

I can't believe I'm singing like a fool in the middle of the park; people are already staring, but I can't seem to care. "But, oh, if we call the whole thing off then we must part. And, oh, if we ever part then that might break my heart."

"So if you like 'pajamas' and I like 'pajahmas,' I'll wear 'pajamas' and give up 'pajahmas,' for we know we need each other so we better call the calling off off."

"Let's call the whole thing off," we finish together.

He carefully lets go off one my hands so we're skating side by side. I can hear a group of men somewhere behind us laughing, but Chandler doesn't seem bothered by it. He just smiles at me broadly. "I do funny things when I'm with you, Monica Geller."

"Don't blame me for this," I insist, laughing. "I don't sing and dance in public like that."

"You do now."

I sigh, and then I'm tumbling forward, tripping over a rock or a twig or more likely my own feet. I grab onto his arm as I fall, and his hands grab my waist, twisting us around and instant later we're on the ground, Chandler somehow maneuvering us so that he's flat on his back on the grass, my fall cushioned by his body. He looks stunned for a few moments, shifting a little to make sure nothing's broken, groaning.

"Oh, my stars, are you all right?"

He nods, laughing just a little. "So, maybe we'll keep practicing."

I roll off him carefully and sit up, surprised that nothing on me is in pain. "Did I hurt you?"

"No. The ground kinda hurt me, but you were nothing."

I give his arm a gentle pat. "I'm sorry. I told you it'd been a while since I went skating."

He sits up with another groan. "First you deck me, then you knock me over—I think you're hazardous to my health." He stands up surprisingly fast, holding his hands out to me. "Come on; let's try again."

I look at him warily. "Are you sure? Like you said, I'm a little dangerous."

"It's a good thing I like danger," he answers with a smirk. "Come on."

Slowly, I hold my hands out to his and he pulls me gently to my feet. "I'll try not to break you," I tell him as he takes my hand again, squeezing my fingers.

"Don't make promises you can't keep," he answers, and because I know if I try anything more complex I'll hurt both of us, I settle for giving him a look.

It doesn't faze him for a moment.


	8. Chapter 8

Phoebe yawns and stretches, purposely bumping Ross in the head with her elbow; he looks at me and Monica as we both try not to laugh.

"You know, you're only encouraging her," he scolds us as he rubs the side of his head.

I shrug, stretching my arm across the back of the booth, squeezing Monica's shoulder gently for a moment. "As long as she sticks to abusing _you_, I'll encourage her all night long."

Monica chuckles and leans her head back against my arm for a moment. "Pheebs, be nice to him."

"This _is_ me being nice," she insists, gulping down the rest of her coffee. A few moments later she stands, putting her money on the table. "Walk me home, Ross."

He scoffs, rolling his eyes at us. "What? Not likely."

"Be a gentleman for once in your life and walk a lady home."

"I don't see any ladies here. OW!" He squints his eyes at me, but I hold my hands up in innocence.

"I didn't touch you, pally."

"Walk her home," Monica tells him.

"_You_ kicked me."

"You're being an egg," she informs him casually, leaning against my side.

He reaches under the table, rubbing his shin. "You don't get to tell me what to do—_I'm_ in the Navy."

"And as a member of the Navy," Phoebe says. "You should walk me home. It's your American duty."

"Fine," he answers, sliding out of the booth.

"Don't put yourself out," Phoebe tells him with a smile, batting her eyes and he just sighs.

"You two coming?"

"Nah, I think I'll have another cup of coffee," I tell him.

"I'll just watch him have another cup of coffee," Monica answers.

"Suit yourselves," he answers, leaning over to kiss Monica's cheek. "Night, Mon. See you back at the base, Chan."

I swipe my hand at him and Phoebe slides her arm through his. "This will only hurt a little, I promise. See you Tuesday, Monica!" With that, she drags Ross along with her, practically skipping out of the diner.

"How does she have that sort of energy at three in the morning?" I ask incredulously.

"I think she's nocturnal," Monica answers, resting her head against my shoulder. I turn my head just a fraction and take a quick whiff—underneath the smell of smoke and booze from a night of work is the smell of her shampoo and something else I can only describe as "Monica."

Quickly, I turn my face. "Tired?"

She shrugs. "Not really. Languid, maybe. Content definitely."

I give her shoulders another squeeze and she hums happily. Even though this all started out as a ruse to spend more time with Monica, it's turning out to be a lot of fun spending time with Ross and Phoebe, too. The four of us have fun, and since the incident where she punched me, we've all started spending our free time together. Ross seems mostly oblivious, just having a good time, but there's something about the way Phoebe looks at me that makes me think she's looking out for Monica.

"Tell me something about you," I say softly.

"My feet hurt."

I chuckle a little and I feel her shoulders shake in response. "Tell me something real."

"My feet _really_ hurt."

"Monicaaaaa."

She's quiet for a few moments, but I don't say anything. We haven't talked much about our lives up to this point and I'm anxious to know more about her, but I don't want to push.

"My mother died before I was six years old."

Well. That's certainly real.

"What happened?"

"I don't know. Ross and I were really young and no one told us anything. I don't think she suffered much, at least I hope she didn't, but one day she was just gone."

"What about your father?"

"I don't think he handled it well. He buried himself in work. We hardly saw him. Ross got to be really good at cooking meals for us for a while until I was old enough and I took over."

"I'm sorry, Mon," I tell her softly, but she just shrugs.

"I remember being sad, but mostly because it felt like I lost both of my parents at the same time. I don't really remember my mother that well."

"That sounds tough."

"It was at times, but like I said, I was very young. I don't have a lot of clear memories of it. I know the market crashed that year, and I know it didn't affect us right away, but my father did eventually lose his job. That's why we live with my grandmother."

I run my fingers through her hair a few times. "What about your father? Where is he?"

"They fished him out of the East River a few years ago."

"Oh, my God," I breathe. I look down and can see her biting her lip; she takes deep breaths as if she's trying to contain herself. "I'm sorry I asked. I didn't mean to upset you."

"No, it's all right. It all happened a while ago."

"That doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt."

"It's sort a dull ache, I guess."

"How long ago?"

"I was twelve."

Twelve. Wow. She's not even eighteen yet and look at what she's been though. "You and Ross have been...are…"

"Orphans," she finishes for me.

"I wasn't going to put it that way."

"Why not? It's what we are. We're lucky our grandmother let us stay with her. Though, that's not true. She adores Ross."

"I'm sure she feels the same about you."

She scoffs and shakes her head. "No, she doesn't. She barely tolerates me. The only reason she lets me stay with her now is because I'm working and can help out with bills."

"That's not true."

She sits up, resting her elbows on the table in front of us. "It _is_ true," she insists. "Once my father died, started telling me that I was going to have to drop out of school and get a job."

I lean forward a little, too, resting my hand on her back. "She didn't say that to Ross, too? I would think it's the older brother's responsibility to take care of the family at that point."

"He offered, but my grandmother wouldn't hear of it. She thinks he has too much 'potential' to give up school. She was heartbroken when he left college to enlist even though she won't stop talking about how proud she is of him and his bravery."

"So, how did you get to stay in school?"

"Ross. He was always on my side with that. He didn't want me to turn into one of those sad children we see in Time Magazine, so he always managed to change Grandma's mind for a while. Eventually, she would switch between telling me that I needed to get a job and telling me to find a husband so someone else could support me. I was so proud of Ross for going to college and trying to make something of himself, but it meant he was never around and I didn't have his help anymore. The last year or so has been tough."

I rub my hand up and down her back a few times and I regret bringing it up. "She sounds like a horrible person."

She just shrugs again. "She's my grandmother."

"That doesn't make her a good person. You're her granddaughter; she should treat you like the wonderful person you are instead of a burden."

She looks at me over her shoulder, smiling softly. "You think I'm wonderful?"

I swallow a little uncomfortably and give her a crooked grin. "You're all right."

"Tell me about you."

"What do you want to know?"

"Tell me something real," she answers, throwing my words back to me.

"There aren't enough hours left in the night. Besides, I think I need to ease you slowly into the world of Chandler Bing."

"Well, do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"No."

She pauses, waiting for me to continue. "That's it? Just 'no'?"

"Well, what else do you want me to say about it? No siblings, no half siblings, no step siblings. Just me and my parents."

She leans back against me once more, her head on my shoulder, tilted back so she can see me. "Sounds lonely."

I can feel my heart pick up in my chest as I look down at her. Her blue eyes are dark in the bad lighting of the diner; her eyelashes look long enough to brush her cheeks. From this close I can see that she has dozens of freckles covering her nose and cheeks and her lips still contain traces of red from the makeup she wore at work earlier tonight. I'm completely overcome with the desire to kiss her, right here where everyone could see us, and I lean just a little closer to her.

Then I come to my senses. I can't do this. She trusts me. She trusts me to get her home safe at night; I don't want to be just another guy whose intentions are less than pure, and if I try to kiss her, I'll lose her. Even if I could get her to believe that it was just in the moment, things would be awkward between us.

No; it's better to be her friend. That's what she needs right now, anyway. A friend, not some creepy older man who can't stop thinking about his best friend's little sister.

I quickly angle my body forward and grab my coffee cup off the table, taking a large gulp. I wince when I realize it's cold. "It wasn't so bad," I finally answer. "I spent a lot of time away in boarding school so I was always around kids my age."

"Boarding school?" she asks, sounding impressed. "That's real? I thought they made those up for books and movies."

"'Fraid not," I tell her, nudging her hip with mine. She puts her money on the table and I follow suit before we scoot out of the booth and stretch our limbs. "Boarding school is very real."

"Sounds like you grew up privileged," she says, sliding her arm through mine as we head out into the night.

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it," I answer, steering her in the direction of her grandmother's apartment.

"What's another way?"

I look down at her and realize she's not teasing me; she's truly curious.

"I'll have to think about that," I finally answer. "I need make sure my answer is suitable for your young ears."

She gives me a gentle shove and I let out an exaggerated "oof," pretending to trip over my own feet. "I'm sure whatever it is you have to say can't possibly be worse than some of the comments I hear at the Lounge."

"What sort of comments do you hear at the Lounge?" I ask, on full alert for anything improper that might have been said to her.

"Golly, Chandler, calm down. We hear all sorts of things at that place. Not all of it is said to us; sometimes we just overhear some of the filth you men spew to each other. No need to be so edgy."

"Excuse me for caring. I don't like the idea of some dandy thinking he can say whatever he wants to say to you."

"Sorry to break it to you, sweetie, but those fellas _can_ say whatever they want. Nothing's gonna stop them. Words aren't a crime."

I purse my lips but say nothing; maybe they're not a crime, but I'll be damned if I sit by and let someone say something insulting to this girl. All I need to hear is some…_man_ proposition Monica. Just the thought of it makes my blood boil.

Finally, I clear my throat. "Hey. My mother's been on my case for me to visit her. You think you might be interested?"

"How far away does she live? I don't know if I can get away from work for very long."

I grin down at her, giving her arm a squeeze. "It's only about an hour outside of the city, but thank you for offering to travel with me."

"An hour?" she answers, smiling back at me. "I can definitely do that! When?"

Part of me is still reeling, amazed that she would be willing to go way out of town with me if I asked. "I don't know yet. I'll give her a call soon and see when it would be good for her. Heck, I'll ask Ross and Phoebe to come along, too. We could all make a day of it."

"Are you sure it wouldn't be an imposition?"

"Nah, she likes company. She lives to entertain."

"Well, it sounds nice. I feel like I haven't been anywhere except to work in ages."

"Umm…didn't we just come from a diner?"

She shoves me again, harder this time, and I stumble into the side of a building for real. "You know what I mean."

"Why are you so strong?" I complain, rolling my shoulder to make sure it's all right.

"Why are you so weak?"

"Hey!" I exclaim, laughing. "I'm not weak."

"You let a girl push you around," she answers smugly.

"I do not _let_ you push me around, either."

"If you say so."

This girl is too much.

I see her building ahead on the left suddenly and feel disappointment rush through me. It always feels like our time together is over too quickly.

"This is my stop," she says as we arrive at the building's front door.

I take her right hand in mine, regally lifting it to my lips. "Thank you for allowing me to accompany you, milady."

She traces her fingers lightly over my jaw and I fight off a shiver. "How does it feel?"

"I hardly feel battered at all anymore," I answer softly, watching a sweet smile spread across her face.

"I'll see you tomorrow—well, I guess later, yes?"

"You bet."

She stands on tiptoe, bracing her hands on my shoulders, and presses a kiss to my jaw. "Good night, Chandler."

"Night, Monica," I nearly whisper. She smiles at me again and disappears through the door. My hand reaches out and I catch myself against the front of the building, feeling weak for a moment. I shake my head but lean against the wall anyway. All she did was kiss my cheek and I can barely stand. I've bedded more women than I care to remember and not one of them ever made me feel a fraction of what I just felt when her lips touched my skin.

I'm in trouble.

God, help me, I can't be falling for Monica. I can't.

Oh, who am I kidding? I fell for her the first time I saw her. It's just been a downward spiral since then.

I give myself a shake and force my body away from the wall. I pull my cigarettes and lighter out of my pocket. I light one up and take a deep drag as I stalk down the street, inexplicably mad at myself.

It doesn't matter. It simply doesn't matter. She's Ross's sister and she's off limits. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Even if that wasn't the case, she doesn't think of me like that.

I have to make myself stop thinking about her this way.

I just don't know how.


	9. Chapter 9

Chandler and I stare at each other, both waiting for the other to make a move.

"You know I'm going to get you," he tells me, the look on his face cocky.

"You sure about that?" I ask, swaying back and forth just a little. "Why don't you make your move, pal?"

He moves suddenly to the left but I keep still; I know he's faking. "C'mon, Monica. Aren't you afraid?"

"Of _you_?" I ask, scoffing. "Please."

"Oh, you're so gonna get it."

"Promises, promises," I taunt. He takes a step toward me and I step to the side, the water sloshing around our shins. He makes a face at me, and I can Ross and Phoebe cheering me on from the blanket spread across the sand. I don't dare look at them; if I do, Chandler will pounce. "Come on, big guy."

He kicks one of his feet, sending water splashing at me, and I jump a little. He lifts his eyebrow at me and I wait. I don't think he'll be able to hold out much longer.

"Whatsa matter? Afraid you won't be able to catch a little bitty girl?"

"You're asking for it," he warns me, his eyes dancing as he teases me.

"Oh, really?" I take a quick step toward him, then step back. "I think you're the one who's asking for it."

Suddenly, he bends down, drawing his arm back as he drags it through the water, hurling it at my face. I shriek and start to run, knowing my best shot to get away is when he's stooped. I hear splashing behind me as he gives chase and I yell out again; my cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

"You're in so much trouble," he yells, and his voice is far too close for comfort. If I keep running straight, he'll catch me in no time—his legs are longer and stronger than mine. So I make a sharp turn to the right, darting into shallower water.

I hear a big splash behind me, and by the way Phoebe's laughing, I assume he fell into the waves trying to catch me. "Cheater," he hollers.

"Sore loser," I call over my shoulder as I reach the edge of the water, slipping a little as I reach the wet sand at the edge of the surf.

"Hurry! Hurry, Monica!" Phoebe yells to me, and before I can help myself, I'm glancing behind me. I yelp as I feel his arms go around my waist, stopping me in my tracks. My feet come off the ground as he spins me back toward the water.

"No,"! shriek. "Let me go!"

"Don't worry; I will." He tightens his grip on me and starts hurrying back toward the water, and my body curls up as I try to free myself. I feel water splashing me as he runs back through the waves.

"Chandler, don't," I plead through my laughter, knowing it's useless.

"Cheaters never win," he tells me, pulling me back a little before he hurls me as far as he can and I'm flying through the air. I barely remember to hold my breath before I hit the water, sinking to the sand beneath me before I push myself to the surface, blinking my eyes to clear my vision. My feet reach for the bottom and I'm relieved to find that I'm only about chest deep.

"Hey!" I call to Chandler's back when I see he's nearly back to the edge of the water again. He looks over his shoulder and waves and keeps walking. "That little…" I duck under the water and swim forward, knowing it'll be much faster than trying to run after him.

When I feel myself dragging across the sand I pop up, landing on my knees. I take a few deep breaths as I push my hair out of my eyes; he walks casually up the beach, not a care in the world. I pull myself to my feet and step carefully through the water, trying to make as little sound as possible. Once I reach the sand, I sprint as fast as possible, letting out a triumphant yell as I reach him, jumping on his back.

"Oh, my God," he huffs out at the impact, and I hold my hands up triumphantly; he stumbles forward and I shriek as we're both suddenly crashing to the ground, landing in a tangle of limbs. "You really _are_ dangerous," he tells me with a groan.

I roll away from him slowly, laughing the whole time. "Next time don't throw me in the water," I answer. He chuckles in agreement and we lay side by side for a few minutes, trying to catch our breath.

The four of us have spent the best day together at the beach. September's here, but the weather is still warm and beautiful, and Phoebe was the one to suggest that we take the opportunity while we could. We haven't done much in the way of swimming, but we've spent plenty of time finding shells, building different structures out of sand, wading through the water when it got too hot, and just talking. We're all a little burned, but it feels like it was worth it.

I peak at Chandler out of the corner of my eye, watching his chest move up and down as he stretches languidly on the sand, our bodies and hair mostly dry already in the warmth of the afternoon. Aside from my brother, I've never seen a man's chest before; it's a little fascinating, though I don't know why. The sun reflects off his skin, already turning a little brown from all the sun we've gotten today. I feel myself start to breathe a little faster so I stand up as quickly as I can, gently kicking his shoulder as I head back to my brother and Phoebe.

"I count that as a victory for you," she tells me as I brush the sand off my skin before plopping down on the blanket.

"How so?" Chandler calls, rolling onto his stomach to stare at us. "_I_ caught_ her_ first—I win."

"Yeah, but you had to rely on brute force; Monica was cunning and tricky. You could have done that, too, but instead you decided to overpower the tiny little woman. Therefore, victory: Monica."

I look over at Ross, who just shrugs and holds up his hands. "I'm not getting involved in this one."

I look at Chandler, smirking at him triumphantly, and he makes a disgusted noise, dragging himself to his feet. "I can't win," he says as he trudges over to the blanket.

"And don't you forget it," Phoebe answers, laughing.

He just shakes his head and gives Ross a nudge. "I'm thirsty; do you ladies need anything?"

"I'm all set, but thanks for asking," Ross answers, batting his eyelashes at Chandler. Phoebe groans a little, lazily reaching out to kick my brother in the shin.

"You represent the United States of America," she reminds him and he makes a face at her, but pulls himself to his feet.

"Is there anything you desire, Phoebe?" he asks, bowing dramatically. "America will be happy to retrieve it for you."

She looks over at me. "See? _This_ is the way all men should behave. Think about how much easier our lives would be if they would all just wait on us hand and foot."

I laugh along with her, but part of me feels very lost—I feel like I'm missing something in what she's saying, but I certainly don't want to bring it up. I already feel much younger than them on a good day; on days like this, when Phoebe's teasing Ross and he just gives in, the few years between me and my friends feels like so much more.

That's not to say that they make me self-conscious of my age; I just know there are a lot of things, adult things, that I just don't understand. A few months ago, I would have said that Ross didn't understand these things either, but now I'm not so sure. I think the time he's spent in training has changed him and either he hears a lot of interesting conversations or he's out there living, but he seems to understand all the teasing.

I feel Chandler's hand on my head and I look up at him, smiling. "You need anything?" he asks, and I just shrug.

"I don't think so."

"You sure? My treat?"

"I don't think that's incentive for me."

He tugs at my hair gently. "If it makes you feel better, you can pay next time."

I swat at his hand, trying to bat him away, but he just ignores me. "Can I get a Coke, then?"

He smiles at me, his fingers softly rubbing my scalp cause pleasant shivers to run down my spine. "Of course."

"Wow, Chandler," Phoebe says, looking at him over the top of her sunglasses. "You'd really let a girl pay for you next time?"

"Of course not; I just figured it was a good way to get her to agree this time."

I reach up and smack his chest. "You're such a twit."

He gives Phoebe and my brother a wounded look, pouting. "See how she treats me? I'm just constantly abused."

Phoebe rolls her eyes before readjusting her sunglasses. "Let my pull out my violin for you. I'll have a Coke, too, please," she tells Ross.

"You got it. C'mon, Chan."

"Ugh. Please don't call me that."

"I'll call you whatever I feel like," Ross answers, shoving Chandler playfully. Chandler answers with a shove of his own, and we watch them head up the beach as they push each other back and forth.

I scoot under the umbrella and nudge Phoebe with my foot. "So, what's going on with you and Ross?"

She looks at me in surprise, laughing as she stretches out in the sun, enjoying the warm, early September weather. "What do you mean?"

"You're always teasing each other and goofing around…"

"I just like to pick on him, Monica. I've told you—he's an easy target. It's fun to get a rise out of him."

"Well, you act as if you like him."

She just shrugs. "I think of him like a little brother."

"You're barely older than him."

"But he's all sweet and innocent, like a little puppy. It's much better that he has me to toughen him up instead of some less charitable dame. Someone else would just take him for a ride." She sits up a little straighter, pushing her sunglasses on top of her head. "But what I want to know is what's going on with you and Chandler?"

I duck my head a little, sure that I'm blushing. "Nothing's going on with us."

She scoffs at me, looking at me disbelievingly. "Oh, please. He comes in to see you every night. He walks you home _every night_. He spends all of his spare time with you, he dotes on you, he can't keep his hands off you—"

"That is _not_ true," I interrupt indignantly. "He doesn't put his hands on me at all."

"He _just_ had his hand on your head," she reminds me. "He usually has his arm around you or has his hand on your back or he's playing with your hair—"

"So what? He's an affectionate person. I didn't know that was a crime."

Phoebe throws her hands up in surrender. "It's not a crime—I just thought there might be more going on than you were telling me."

"Well, there's not," I answer, crossing my arms defensively. "We're just friends. He likes to make sure I'm safe at night when I walk home. I would think you'd be singing his praises for being such a gentleman, actually."

She blinks at me, confused. "But I thought _you_ liked him."

"No, _you_ thought I liked him, remember? That was your idea. I never said that." I don't know why I keep denying that fact. Maybe it's because now that he's my friend, it would make things awkward to confess that I have a crush on him. Besides, that's all it is—a silly crush on a boy that pays attention to me, is easy on the eyes, and is nice to me. Any girl would feel the same way. He's just a sweet guy. And anyway, I'm only Ross's little sister. He's told me that Ross is already like a brother to him, so that would make me Chandler's little sister, too . It doesn't matter if I like him or not because he will never think of me that way. I can accept that. At some point, I'll probably move on from this…whatever it is in the pit of my stomach and just accept being his friend, but right now, I feel that if I say it out loud, I'll ruin everything.

"If you say so, Monica," Phoebe answers, readjusting her sunglasses, lying back against the blanket, but I can tell by her tone that she doesn't believe me.

"Why won't you believe me?" I ask, frustrated.

"Because you can't see what I see," she tells me smugly.

"And what do you see?"

She says nothing, crossing her arms behind her head, her eyes probably closed behind her sunglasses. She's infuriating at times. I love her dearly and she's been wonderful to me since the day I met her, but she has a tendency to just stop in the middle of a conversation as if there's nothing more to be said. Like right now—she won't mention ever again what it is she sees or think she sees; instead, she'll just let me fester over it until I make myself crazy.

I think this is what she does to Ross.

"It doesn't matter what you say," I tell her. "He doesn't feel that way about me and I don't feel that way about him. We're _friends_, Phoebe. That's all."

"Fine," she tells me, shrugging just a little too casually. "It just seems to me that you're protesting an awful lot."

"Because you won't listen to me," I exclaim, frustration rising up in me.

"Hey, calm down." She reaches out, patting me on the leg apologetically. "I'm sorry. I'm your friend, too. I just want you to be happy."

I feel tears prickling the corners of my eyes, and I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palms to keep them at bay. "Then please, _please_ stop bothering me about this."

She pauses, studying me from behind her lenses for a few moments. "All right."

I'm not sure why, but that doesn't make me feel better.

Before I can think about it too much, Chandler and Ross rejoin us on the blanket, Chandler scooting next to me under the umbrella. I give him a look and he just shrugs. "I have delicate skin." Phoebe snorts, but he ignores her. "A Coke for you, doll, and in case you're hungry, we got hotdogs." My stomach instantly growls in response and he looks triumphantly at my brother. "Told you."

"What am I, chopped liver?" Phoebe asks as she sits up. "I don't count?"

Ross rolls his eyes at me as Chandler clinks his bottle to mine. "She really wants it all, doesn't she?"

"Is this your first time meeting me?"

He hands over a soda and hotdog for her, too. "Just remember this next time I can't afford to tip you."

"And next time you can't afford to tip me," she answers, taking a bite of her food. "Remember why your drinks taste funny."

Ross pauses, looking alarmed and Chandler chuckles, slinging his free arm around my shoulders. I shift a little closer to him despite the warmth of the day. He smells wonderful. His fingers tug at the ends of my hair and I shove him gently with my shoulder. Yes; he definitely thinks of me like a little sister.

I'll just have to learn to think about him like a brother.


	10. Chapter 10

Monica's mouth drops open as we walk down the winding dirt path, my childhood home coming in to view. "_This_ is your house?"

"Technically, it's my mother's." She looks at me with eyebrows raised. "It's a little excessive."

"Just one family lives here?"

I can't help but chuckle at her reaction. "Yes, it was just us."

"What do you do with all the extra space?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you said that it's only your parents and you—what happens in the rest of the house?"

I open my mouth to respond, then quickly close it when I realize that I have no idea how to answer that. "Actually, it's just me and my mother now."

"Oh."

"But…I never really thought about it. I don't know what we did with the rest of the house. Sometimes family would come to visit and stay for a while, but other than that I suppose it just collected dust. I think it's just another way to display money."

Her eyes grow wider as we get closer to the house, and I suddenly feel horribly embarrassed, though I'm not sure why. It was my parents who threw money around, not me.

That's not entirely true, though I never did it to the extent they did.

"What happened to your father?" she asks softly, her hand finding mine, and I give it a little squeeze.

"It's still early—want to walk around the grounds before heading inside?"

Monica looks at me with surprise, but nods. "Sure."

I steer her toward the stables, both of us quiet. I'm not sure how to approach this, or how much of my sordid past I should risk telling her.

I'm infinitely grateful that she was the only one who could come here with me today. I don't know if I could have handled Phoebe's incessant teasing and taunting right now.

It's been a while since I came back here.

"I don't know where to start, Monica."

"Start with what?"

"I don't know which part of my story to start with. Do I tell you about my father, or do I tell you why I haven't been here in almost a year? Does one lead into the other? Are they separate stories?"

"Chandler. You don't have to tell me anything."

I stop, turning to face her. "But I want to. I want you to know the sort of person I am and the people I come from so you can decide if you still want to spend time with me. I won't blame you if you don't."

"Hey." The hand that's not wrapped around mine comes up, cupping my cheek, and a gentle whiff of perfume hits my senses. "You're scaring me a little. I don't think there's anything you could do to make me not want to spend time with you, though."

"Really?" I ask doubtfully.

"Really. I think…you might be the best friend I've ever had."

My heart sinks just a little. "The best, huh?"

"Sure. I can talk to you about anything, and you _let_ me actually say what I need to say. You don't treat me like I'm some dumb kid or a helpless woman. You're always there when I need you, even when I don't know that I need you. You're so kind and gentle and sweet…I just don't know that there's anything you could do to make me not want to be around you."

Her friend. That's okay. It's good to be reminded of that from time to time, especially on a day like this when it feels as if we're anything but.

I shrug and start walking again, giving her fingers a little tug. "Well, I suppose the story with my father isn't that different than most these days. He was a financial investor—a good one, from what I understand. Even with the Market turning south, he was able to keep a few things afloat for a while. I don't know all the details—I'm sorry. I just know that he was good at what he did until it wasn't possible for him to do it anymore. Life carried on like normal here; lots of parties and people and drinking and food. I mean, I know that's not normal for most people, but out here…

"Anyway, I guess when I was about fourteen my parents started fighting a lot. Not usually about anything worth fighting over, but I think just to pick fights with each other. Then it would inevitably lead to money, and it sounded like maybe they were spending too much and the income wasn't what it used to be, or maybe my father was taking money from other people's accounts. I don't really know, and I didn't want to know. I guess that's one of the good things about a big house—lots of places to hide."

I feel Monica's fingers squeeze my own, her head resting against my shoulder as we walk into the stables. "Chandler," she says softly.

"Long story short, I came outside one morning when I was fifteen and found my father floating face down in the pool."

She gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, my God."

"There were a lot of empty bottles around, and it was eventually ruled accidental, but I've always been pretty sure he did it on purpose so we could have the insurance money from his death. He knew that if he killed himself we'd get nothing, so he did what he could to make it look like an accident."

Her arms go around my waist suddenly, stopping both of us in our tracks. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. That must have been so horrible for you." She laughs mirthlessly as she buries her face in my chest. "What am I saying? Of _course_ it was horrible for you. I can't even imagine."

"Monica, _both_ of your parents are gone. I think if there's anyone who could imagine what it's like, it's you."

"But how awful for you. To have found your father like that…" her voice trails off as she shudders, pulling me closer.

That's one of the best things about this girl. Her life has been anything but easy, she was an orphan by twelve, she lives with a grandmother who sounds as if she can't stand her own granddaughter, she works in a bar that no matter how nice it may seem is still a bar, she's never had the money for anything extra or even anything basic, and all she can think about is how terrible that incident was for me. _Me_. The guy who doesn't know how to do anything but feel sorry for himself and his wealth and does nothing but mess up everything.

It shouldn't matter at all whether she wants me as a friend or something more—the fact that this wonderful creature wants to spend time with me at all is a miracle and I should just be grateful. I wrap my arms around her and rest my chin on top of her head. I honestly don't know why I picked today and now to bare my soul to her, though I suppose it has a lot to do with being here with all these memories, all of them bombarding me at one time.

I just want her to know me, the real me. I've never wanted anyone to know the real me before, but it matters to me that she knows me. She's special, and whether I like it or not, her opinion matters to me. It matters more than anyone else's.

"Do you feel up to telling me the rest?" she asks softly. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

"No, I do. Let's…just get out of the stables."

She gives me another squeeze before releasing me, keeping one arm around my waste.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"Why do you have stables but no horses?"

I burst out laughing—I wasn't expecting that. "We used to have horses, I swear. They're expensive, so we sold them a long time ago. Can't do anything about the barn, though. Besides, it's my mother's dream to host a wedding here at some point."

"So, when you find the right girl, you already have the venue," Monica answers with a shrug.

"Only if the right girl wants to get married somewhere like this. Personally…I don't know. I'm not sure how I feel about getting married in the place where horses used to live." I feel her shoulders shake with laughter. "Besides, I've never really been able to picture myself getting married."

"Really? That seems awfully lonely."

"Well, maybe if I find the right girl, that'll change." I know for a fact it would change; I'm positive that if I were lucky enough to have Monica feel about me the way I think I feel about her, the way I _know_ I'll feel about her the more I get to know her, marriage is something I'd consider in a heartbeat.

But that's neither here nor there.

She's my friend. Just my friend.

I lead her out of the stables and she gasps; I suppose the view can be pretty amazing if you're not expecting it. Open fields, gently rolling hills, a view of the town below us, and, what she'll discover later, the perfect spot for watching the sunset.

I steer her slowly back toward the house, my arm draped over her shoulders.

"After my father's death, I suppose I sort of…spiraled out of control. It didn't happen all at one time. I did stupid things like play hooky from school and throw rocks through windows. I started drinking, which led to stupider things. Somehow, I managed to graduate high school and get into college, though I think that had a lot more to do with who my father was than my competence as a student. I…became very _friendly_ with a lot of women. I drank even more. I got thrown in jail a few times, usually for doing something stupid like starting a fight in the middle of the street or for passing out in the middle of Macy's. I crashed my car. Then I crashed my replacement car. More women, more fighting, more drinking. I never went to class, I spent all of my time at clubs and bars and parties. I spent too much money. It was after I wrecked my fifth car that I woke up in the hospital handcuffed to my bed that even I could figure out that something bad had happened, that I was just about at the point of no return. The judge told me I could go to jail or join the military; I was going to go to jail, but my mother finally had enough, though I don't know how she managed to last that long. She kicked me out and cut me off, and told me I had to join the military, that spending a few months in prison wasn't going to fix it. She thought it would teach me discipline. She told me if I didn't enlist, I was out of her life forever. I guess that did it—I didn't want to lose the only parent I have left."

Amazingly, it's an enormous relief to get all of that off my chest. I can't even bring myself to look at her, but I feel like an immense weight has been lifted off my shoulders; for better or for worse, now she knows.

She hasn't pulled away from me, so that's something.

"Maybe I missed something," she finally says, "but I don't understand why you haven't been here in almost a year."

Ah, Monica. I love that _that's_ what she took away from my tale. "Shame, mostly. I've been trying to get myself together and clean up my act and be responsible. As you can tell from the sort of hours I keep, I've only been partly successful in that respect."

"You've always seemed like the responsible sort to me."

"I don't know that—"

"You make sure I get home safe at night, even on the nights you don't get to come to the Lounge, you still manage to walk me home. Maybe I'm naïve, but that seems pretty responsible to me"

I shrug, looking down at my feet. "I'm just trying to be a nice guy."

"Well, then I think all the hard work you're putting in has paid off," she says softly. I look at her out of the corner of my eye to see her smiling at me.

"You really think so?"

"Of course I do. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't."

"Chandler, you're great. I know it took me a little while to warm up to you, but I'm so happy that I did. You're just wonderful, but…well, I guess this does explain the way you used to treat women when we first met."

I cringe, averting my eyes once more. "You mean with all the pinching and the grabbing? Yeah; that was an old habit that was far too easy to fall into again. I'm sorry about that; truly, I am."

She gives me a gentle nudge with her elbow. "Don't worry about it. Water under the bridge."

"You know I wouldn't treat _you_ that way, right?"

"Obviously, or you would have by now. You're a good man, Chandler. Please don't let yourself believe otherwise."

I open the gate to the backyard, the infamous pool—now dry—spread out in front of us. Her arm squeezes my waist, but she says nothing. We stand at the edge for a few minutes, the image of finding my father still sharp in my memory.

"I was trying to forget," I say softly.

"I know."

"I didn't want it to hurt anymore."

"I know that, too."

"It still hurts."

"I don't know if it ever stops."

I kiss the side of her head, closing my eyes for a moment, breathing in her soft, delicate scent. She understands; these are not hollow words of comfort. She truly knows what this feels like, how hard it is to live with, and that it's nearly impossible to get over.

I pull my cigarette case out of my pocket and light one up, looking at Monica in surprise when she takes it out of my hand. "I thought you only did this during our late-night, post-work diner sessions."

She takes a deep drag and hands it back to me. "Felt like the right moment."

We stand in silence for a while longer, passing the cigarette back and forth until it's burned out and I stub it under my shoe. "Can I confess something to you?" I feel her nod against my shoulder. "I'm terrified to go to war."

"When did you get here?"

I jump at the sound of my mother's voice and turn around, smiling broadly when I see her. The moment is broken, though I'm sure we'll pick it up again at some point. "A few minutes ago. Hi."

She holds her arms out to me and I give her a big hug, nearly pulling her off the ground. Until this moment, I didn't realize just how much I missed her.

"I've missed you," she whispers into my ear, her arms tightening around my neck, and I feel a smile spread across my face.

"Me, too."

I kiss her cheek and release her, and she smiles at Monica, extending her hand. "Hello. I'm Nora Bing."

Monica's hand shoots out and she nearly stumbles over her own feet to get to my mother. "Hi. I'm Monica Geller."

My mother lifts her eyebrows to me. "Is this your young lady?"

My eyes grow wide and I'm certain my cheeks turn pink. "Ah, no. This is Monica."

"Well, I think we've established that, dear."

"She's, um…she's…"

"Chandler and my brother are in the same unit," Monica jumps in, saving me from myself.

"How wonderful." She pauses, looking back and forth between us, waiting for more.

"Ross and I are good friends," I explain. "That's how I met Monica."

"Of course. That makes sense." She pauses again, and I can't believe I forgot how good she is at reading people, and putting just the right amount of pause at the end of a sentence so that you know that she knows something more than she's telling. "Is Ross here, too?"

"Oh, he couldn't make it," Monica answers. "Neither could Phoebe."

"Phoebe?" my mother asks, her eyebrows raised.

"Our friend," I answer the same time Monica says, "I work with her."

"I think you've lost me," she says.

"Ross and I are in the same unit," I say again, and my mother nods.

"I work at—" Monica's voice immediately drops off, her mouth clamping shut, and I realize that she's suddenly embarrassed by her job.

"Where do you work?"

"It's a place called the Moonlight Lounge," I answer for her. "Ross and I go in to visit Monica sometimes, and her friend Phoebe, and on our days off, we're all usually together."

"The Moonlight Lounge? A bar, Chandler?" My mother sounds disappointed and I feel my chest tighten just a little. "I hope you're behaving yourself."

"Oh, yes, ma'am, he is. He's always a perfect gentleman," Monica answers, rushing to my defense, causing my mother to chuckle lightly.

"I take it you told her about your past..shenanigans?" I nod and she pats my arm. "Good for you. Well, Monica, whatever the reason it is that you're here with my son, it's wonderful to meet you. Please; come in." She holds the door open for us, and I watch Monica's mouth drop open as we walk into the kitchen.

"This room is bigger than my entire apartment," she whispers, and I rub her shoulder blades consolingly. "Thank you so much for having me out here, Mrs. Bing," she says to my mother. "Your house is beautiful."

"You've only seen the one room," my mother answers with a smile, and poor Monica blushes. "But thank you."

"Want me to show her to the dining room?" I ask, my hand still on her back.

"I'm here by myself, Chandler—that dining room is a bit much for only me."

"Well, then where do you eat now?"

She spreads her arms out at the room around us. "Here, of course. It's much cozier and not nearly as much bother. Anita doesn't seem to mind the company, either."

Monica looks at me questioningly. "Anita's the cook," I tell her, and her eyes grow wide, but she keeps her lips pursed together. "She's been with the family since I was a baby."

"Dinner's almost ready," my mother tells us. "I hope you're hungry."

"Um…is there somewhere I can wash up first?" Monica asks, and all I want to do is hug her—she looks so nervous.

I point to the swinging kitchen door. "Through there and to the right. It's at the end of the hall."

"Thank you." With that, she disappears through the doorway, and I go to the kitchen sink to wash my own hands. My mother leans against the counter, watching me.

"Your _friend_, Monica," she finally says, disbelieving.

"Yes; my friend, Monica."

"Are you sure that's all?"

"Yes, Mother, I'm sure that's all. I think I'd know if there were something else, don't you?"

"No, I don't think you would."

I turn off the water and look at her, shocked. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She hands me a towel. "You look happy, honey."

I've also forgotten how swiftly she can change subjects and switch tactics. "I'm getting there."

"I'm very proud of you," she tells me. "You seem like you're working very hard to turn your life around."

"I want to be a better person," I answer simply.

"For Monica," she finishes, and I feel my eyes grow wide and my cheeks heat up.

"Mother! No! I just want to be a better person."

"But Monica's opinion matters to you."

"Of course it does. She's my friend."

She crosses her arms over her chest. "You keep saying that."

I cross my arms over my chest, too, mirroring her, feeling like a defiant child. "Because it's true."

"Is it?"

We stare each other down for a few moments before I give in with a sigh, looking away. "I'm her friend," I say weakly.

"Are you sure about that?"

I look back at my mother, startled, but she's already turned away from me, the subject closed as she pulls out another place setting. I take it from her quietly, my mind reeling as I try to figure out what she means.

I'm Monica's friend. Of course I am.

Did she mean that she thinks Monica might think of me as more than a friend?

No; my mother is just surprised to see me with a respectable looking girl for once, and I think it's throwing her for a loop. After the sort I used to chase, I'm sure it's just wishful thinking on her part. Not that I brought any of those girls home to meet my mother, but I know she can imagine the type.

But Monica is only my friend. That's as far as it goes. That's why I can talk to her about anything, including my sordid past. And because I'm her friend, she can forgive me my past sins. That's what friends do.

I won't let myself really question why I haven't told any of this to Ross.

I'm sure I will at some point.


	11. Chapter 11

"I think it's getting too cold to sit on the roof, Chandler," I say as the cold wind hits me and I jump from foot to foot, trying to keep warm.

"Where's your sense of adventure, Mon?" he asks as he grabs my arm, pulling me out to our usual spot.

"It's someplace warm," I answer through chattering teeth. "My sense of adventure lives somewhere warm. It hibernates in the winter."

"First of all, it' s only October so it's still fall. Second of all, too bad. The adventures will continue in cold weather."

"All right, smarty pants, but it's almost Halloween so that means it's late fall—"

"Middle of fall," he interrupts. "Technically it's fall until late December. Didn't you learn _anything_ at that public school of yours?"

"I learned manners, which is more than I can say about your private school education." Ever since I found out that Chandler grew up rich, I've been able to tease him mercilessly. Finally. He's almost impossible to embarrass except when the subject turns to money and his privileged upbringing. I'm not sure why it bothers him, really; maybe it's because, at least for a while, he had so much when others had so little, but he can't help that. He was just a kid—it was his parents' money. Still is, at least what's left of it. "You know, it's the middle of the night. I don't have to put up with this sort of treatment when I could be at home in my warm bed." He just gives me a disbelieving look.

"Really? With your grandmother around?"

"She's always asleep when I get home. I get a few hours of peace before she starts asking me when I'm going to get married. She doesn't realize there aren't a lot of eligible bachelors that walk through the doors of the Moonlight Lounge." I shiver again—it really is unseasonably cold for this time of year. "You know, it's easy for you to say that it's only fall when you're wearing pants. This skirt is drafty."

He rubs his hands up and down my arms for a few moments, trying to warm me up. "Come here—I came prepared." He pulls me over to the chairs we've scavenged from various parts of the building over the last few months and plops me down. He grabs a blanket out of his rucksack and shakes it out, wrapping it around my shoulders; instantly, I start to feel better. He pulls out a thermos next, handing it over to me. "And because I know you don't really like coffee…"

I twist off the cap, smiling happily when the smell hits me. "Hot chocolate!"

He settles himself next to me and hold out my arm so he can use the blanket, too. "One day, you'll realize just how wonderful coffee is," he tells me as I press myself against his side, his body heat doing the trick.

"Until then, I'll just have to settle for chocolate."

He snatches the thermos out of my hands, taking a quick sip and smacking his lips happily. "Coffee is really much more dignified," he tells me, and I lift an eyebrow at him, biting back a laugh at the chocolate stuck to his upper lip.

"Obviously. Then maybe you should let me have my undignified hot chocolate and go find some coffee." I reach out to grab the container back from him but he stretches out his arm, holding it out of reach. I make a fist at him and he relents with a sigh.

"You always go right to violence," he complains, pouting, and I sip the chocolate contentedly.

"It's the only thing you respond to."

He pulls the blanket tighter around us, his arm wrapping around my shoulders to keep me warm. "Speaking of winter—"

"That's a bit of a stretch, don't you think?"

He ignores me. "I know it's early, but I was wondering what you and your family do for Christmas."

"Ummm, we don't celebrate Christmas."

He pulls back in shock, staring at me. "Why not?"

"Because we're—" I pause for a moment and look around, even though I know that there's no one up here to overhear me. "We're Jewish," I finish softly, and a look of understanding comes over his face.

"Ohhhhhh. I never thought about it." Lately, that's _all_ I've been thinking about. There have been some scattered reports about Jews being rounded up in Europe, but the details have been scarce. I've heard very little information at the Lounge about it, too, though I'm pretty sure I heard someone say "execution" the other day. I don't know what it all means.

Ross and I have been dealing with anti-Semitism our entire lives, though when we moved in with our grandmother and changed schools, we decided to keep it quiet and just pretend to celebrate Christmas like the other kids. I've seen some people get harassed pretty badly over the last few years, and _something_ must be trickling over to us from Europe because it feels like there've been more attacks on Jews lately.

It's horrifying even though most people don't know I'm Jewish, and it makes me even more grateful that I have Chandler to walk me home at night.

The world is a really scary place right now.

I feel his hand stroke my arm soothingly and I realize I'm shivering again, though this time for an entirely different reason. "I don't know if makes any difference to you," he whispers. "But it doesn't matter to me. You and Ross are my friends and you're good people and that's the only thing that matters in my book."

"Thank you. I just wish the rest of the world felt the same."

"Maybe one day."

"Maybe."

We're silent for a few minutes and I sip the hot chocolate, finally passing it back to him.

"So, what do you do for Hanukkah?"

I smile a little wistfully. "Not that much these days. We light the menorah and say the prayers and blessings; we don't really go to the Synagogue anymore. When Ross and I were small, our mother would cook these wonderful meals; her latkes were to die for. My father didn't pay much attention to it after she died and we all but stopped celebrating it after the Depression started. It could be a little better this year since I have a job and we might be able to afford a few extras. What do you do for Christmas?"

"Oh, you know. The usual." He shrugs and looks down at me, then smiles at what must be a confused look on my face. "I guess you _don't_ know. We decorate the tree and exchange presents. Sometimes we have family come over and have a big dinner."

"Like what?"

He shifts uncomfortably, putting the thermos down on the ground next to him. "Just the standards, really."

"Tell me."

"Monica…"

"Chandler, it's not your fault you grew up with money."

"I know, but…"

I put my hand on his thigh, squeezing gently. "It doesn't bother me, if that's what you're wondering."

His hand finds mine, sliding our fingers together for a few seconds. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. How often have I lied to you?"

"Well, sure, there is that. There was ham, mashed potatoes, stuffing, corn, onion pie—"

"Onion pie?" I interrupt with a laugh. "What on earth is that?"

"Just what it sounds like, kid. A pie of onions and it's glorious." He gives me a funny look. "You don't eat ham, do you?"

I just shake my head and shrug. "It's against the religion. I've managed to survive almost eighteen years without it, though, so I suppose we Jews are doing something right."

He snickers and gives my shoulder a nudge. "I suppose so. Well, if you ever come to my mother's house for Christmas—you know, just as a cover, of course—I'll be sure to tell her we need turkey instead. You do eat turkey, right?"

I pause for a moment. "You know, I don't really remember. We haven't been able to afford a turkey in a long time."

"Oh, Monica…"

"Chandler, please don't feel sorry for me, all right? There are a lot of people out there who have it much worse than I ever did. We may not have much, but at least I've always had a roof over my head and _some_ food to eat. There are just some things that are an extravagance and turkey is one of them. I've managed to survive without that, too."

"I'm sorry; I just don't like to see people I care about suffering."

"Is _that_ why you insisted we sit on a roof in the middle of the night when the wind is blowing like this? To avoid seeing me suffer?" I tease, and it does the trick.

"I should clarify; I don't like to see people I care about suffering _unless_ it's entertaining for me."

"You are a true gentleman, sir."

"I like to think so." I grab his side and pinch; he twists away, his mouth dropping open. "Ow ow ow! Why are you so violent?"

"It's a rule—if you grow up poor, you have to be violent."

"A rule? Really? Where is _that_ written?"

"It's a handbook we get."

He scoots back to me, cautiously this time. "That seems terribly unlikely."

"I don't make the rules," I answer, leaning against his side again. "I just follow them."

He just shakes his head and I tilt my face toward the night sky. It's truly beautiful right now, even if it's too cold to be sitting out here like this. The sky is inky black and full of stars; up here, it's easy to let yourself believe that world is at peace and everything is going to be all right.

Chandler started inviting me to sit up here with him not long after I found out he'd been following me home. At first, I thought he was off his rocker, but I quickly discovered just how nice it could be to take a few minutes to just relax with someone and look out over the city, especially after work some nights. To be able to just take a few moments to sit and unwind is very cathartic; it usually means I get home in the wee hours of the night, but since it usually takes me a while to unwind and get to sleep after work, it's nice to have someone to talk to. My grandmother is always asleep when I get home so she doesn't notice if it's one in the morning or four in the morning.

"Your birthday's coming up soon, isn't it?"

I blink a couple of times, almost surprised by the sound of his voice. "It is. Eighteen at last."

"At least I won't have to spend time with some kid anymore." I lift my arm to elbow him but he manages to catch me before I make contact. "I'm just teasing. I can promise you that eighteen doesn't feel much different than seventeen."

"Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"Just a simple fact, though you'll be able to drink now if you want. Any big plans?"

"I don't even have small plans; it's a work night. I'm sure what I'm about to say won't come as a shock to you, but it's been quite some time since I had a birthday celebration."

I don't know what I was expecting, but he kisses my temple and wraps both of his arms around me; my heart jumps for a second before I get myself under control. I've gotten better at not reacting to Chandler that way, but it's still a struggle at times, especially when he does something sweet like that out of the blue. I swallow hard and pat his hand. "Most of the people I know haven't had a birthday party in years. Besides, you get to an age where parties like that seem sort of silly." That's only a partial truth; they seem silly, but it would have been nice to have them once in a while.

"Do you want to do anything for your birthday?" he asks me softly and I shrug, smiling.

"We could go to the diner with Ross and Phoebe," I suggest and he makes a face at me.

"Or…"

"Or...you could walk me home from work and bring me up here for a little while."

"That's the same thing we do almost every night," he complains.

"But I like it. I guess if you want to switch things up a bit, you could find another building."

"Then we wouldn't have all of our supplies."

"They why are you complaining? "

I can see him opening and closing his mouth a few times out of the corner of my eye and feel a smug smile spread across my face. "Fine," he finally concedes. "If that's what you want."

"It's what I want," I assure him.

He stands with a sigh, holding a hand out to me to help me stand. "One of these days, I'm going to have to teach you how to dream big, Monica."

I give his fingers a squeeze as he leads me to the door to head back downstairs. "I like my small dreams just fine, thank you."


	12. Chapter 12

The Lounge is rowdy tonight. It's more crowded than usual, too, with people packed in like sardines. The atmosphere seems joyful despite the climate of the world. Thanksgiving is just around the corner; a lot of people don't have a lot to feel terribly thankful for right now, but misery _does_ love company.

For now, the alcohol is flowing, the music is swinging, and everyone is having a good time. Monica and Phoebe have been busy all night, neither of them able stop by for more than a moment or two at a time. That's all right, though. More customers mean more money, which good for both of them. Ross and I will see them tonight.

I feel someone bump into my back and I bounce off the table, my drink splashing a little. I look up and see Monica winking at me over her shoulder as she hurries past, and all I can do is smile. She turned eighteen last week and has been much bolder lately.

She confessed to me as I was walking her home after her birthday celebration that being eighteen makes her feel a little less like the child of our group, and that now she's on a more even playing field. She certainly has been sassier, though that may be Phoebe's influence more than anything. That, and she's finally more at ease with her job, and much more adept at handling customers.

She is definitely a force to be reckoned with.

Cuter than a bug's ear, too.

I don't know if "cute" is the best way to describe Monica, though. She is—she has moments where she's completely adorable and all I want to do is hold her. But she's also completely stunning, and lately…lately she's been downright sexy.

Now that's she's more comfortable in her waitress uniform, she stands out even more. Her back is straighter, her smile is brighter. Even in her regular clothes this is true, though. She's growing more confident by the day.

Her flirting skills have improved ten-fold, too.

It just makes me nutty that she doesn't direct it at me.

I understand why she doesn't—she uses it on the men she considers her "actual" customers, and since I'm essentially her big brother, there's no need to flirt with me.

Except she keeps sending me mixed messages.

At least, I think she is.

I suppose it's much more likely that she's just being herself and I'm seeing what I want to see.

But all I can think about is how much fun we had the night of her birthday; even though she said that all she wanted to do was sit on our roof and watch the sky, I couldn't let her birthday pass by with so little fanfare, especially after finding out that it's been years since she'd had any sort of celebration. We took her to a bar I used to frequent, and though it wasn't the classiest of joints, she had a good time. She drank her first gin and tonic, which she seemed to thoroughly enjoy. She got a little tipsy—off of the one drink—which she also seemed to enjoy. We showered her with attention and she came to life. She glowed. The smile never left her face.

And she spent most of the evening parked on my lap.

She had no reason to—there were plenty of open seats for her, but she sat with me, usually with one arm wrapped around my neck.

I tried not to read too much into it; I know firsthand how affectionate alcohol can make one feel. But when the woman you can't stop thinking about, dreaming about, fantasizing about has her body pressed against yours all evening, the lines you draw for yourself start to become very, very blurry. Just the feel of her soft body against mine was enough to send my head reeling. I had to fight to keep my hands off of her. When I dropped her off at her grandmother's, everything in me fought against the urge to kiss her.

What's worse is that I could almost imagine that she wanted me to. She kept looking up at me with a hazy smile, her blue eyes dark, her cheeks flushed in the cold wind…and all I could do was pat her on the shoulder, wish her a happy birthday, and be on my way.

I know I made the right decision. I can't imagine the disaster it would have been if I'd kissed her when all she wanted was to tell me what a good time she'd had.

It doesn't matter that part of me aches every time I'm around her.

It doesn't matter that instead of fading, what I feel for her gets stronger every day.

It doesn't matter that she consumes my every waking moment.

It doesn't matter.

This must be what hell feels like—to want something so badly and know you'll never have it.

I give myself a shake, bringing myself back to the moment. There's no sense in festering over something that just won't happen. That _shouldn't_ happen.

"You two doing all right over here?" she asks, suddenly appearing at my elbow. Ross nods; I want to wrap my arm around her waist but settle for nudging her with my shoulder. Even if I were lucky enough to have her, I probably wouldn't be allowed to hold her like that while she's at work. I'm sure her boss wants all of the girls to look available.

"We're fine, Monica. How about you?"

"This is great. Being this busy makes the night go by much faster." She looks over her shoulder at her tables behind her. "Sorry I can't talk for very long." She leans over wipes off the table with her towel, making herself look busy. "I'll be glad when I can sit down, though. You sure you don't need anything?"

"We're sure, Mon," Ross answers, rolling his eyes at her playfully.

"All right. I'll be back when I can." I watch her walk away, stopping at the next table over. One of the men says something to her and she grins, laughing loudly. I know it's an act—I've heard her real laugh and that's not it, and most of the men who speak to her aren't that funny, but it makes my stomach turn nonetheless.

"You okay over there, buddy?"

Ross's voice cuts through my thoughts and I blink at him a few times. "Of course. Why?"

"You're…glowering."

"I'm _glowering_?"

"Yeah. Are you upset about something?"

No—just crazy about your sister. He looks so concerned about me, though, that I just smile at him crookedly, hopefully reassuring him. "I'm fine. Honest."

"If you're sure…"

I nod at him, taking another sip of my drink, my eyes immediately seeking out Monica again. She's facing me, leaning on a table a few feet away, the guy she's talking to staring straight down her top. I feel the muscles in my arms tighten, my fingers curling around my glass before I force myself to look away. Of course she's going to pick up some of these habits—she's trying to make a living _and_ she's competing against a handful of other women.

That doesn't mean this guy has to ogle her.

Ross nudges my arm and points to the door—a group of girls has just entered, ones I've never seen in here before. He looks at me with wide eyes, gesturing to them with his head. "Want to go talk to them?"

I pretend to mull it over for a few moments—I don't want to refuse too quickly and have him start to wonder about me. "Have at it, pal," I tell him, shaking my head. "Might as well let you have a shot once in a while."

Ross gives me an insulted look and grabs his drink, heading over to the women who look suitably impressed that they're being approached by someone in uniform. I look for Monica again; the table with the ogler has their drinks, but now he's watching Monica's backside as she leans over a table next to him.

I slowly take a sip of my drink, keeping my eyes on him. He's gesturing to her to his friends; I don't need to be able to read lips to know he's not talking about her waitressing skills. His friends let out a loud laugh, which only seems to encourage the creep. His hand reaches out and tickles her elbow; she looks over her shoulder and gives him a half smile. He wags his eyebrows at her and she goes back to what she was doing.

Apparently, that's not enough—I can see his friends egging him on, gesturing at Monica, telling him to do it again. His arm goes out again, his fingers tracing softly down her arm. I feel my blood start to boil—is this how she felt when she first met me?—but all she does is give her arm a little shake, trying to brush him off.

Good girl.

This guy does _not_ look happy about being ignored, though. He sets his jaw and out goes his hand again, this time sliding roughly down her back until he grabs a handful of her backside.

I see red.

I slam my drink on the table and shove my chair back, taking the few steps over to this piece of scum. I grab him by the front of his shirt and drag him to his feet. I vaguely hear Monica say my name, but my arm goes back and suddenly I'm punching him.

"What makes you think you can touch her, huh?" I yell, emphasizing every few words with another hit. "You don't touch her! You never touch her!"

His buddies are yelling for me to stop, but I can't make out their words; all I can hear is a roaring sound in my ears as I punch this guy's ugly mug.

"Chandler! Chandler, stop!"

I feel a hand on my arm and I try to shake it off; someone pulls at me, trying to slow me down, and all I feel is rage that this disgusting nobody would touch someone as perfect as Monica without her permission, that he would just grab her like he had every right in the world. "You don't touch her!" I yell again. "You don't even look at her, you piece of garbage!"

Suddenly, there's a hand on my cheek, forcing me to look away from the guy, and my eyes land on Monica's. The world around me comes back into focus; I'm looming over the guy, holding him against the table top. Immediately, I let go of his shirt and stand up, staring at her.

"Chandler!"

I blink a few times, my breathing heavy.

"Get them out of here!" She looks away from me for a few seconds, nodding to probably her boss, and I feel the rage fill me again. I reach for the guy, who's already a bleeding, cowering mess, and he scrambles away from me. Monica's hand on my chest stops me.

"Chandler, stop it." She grabs my arm and pulls. "Come on, before they call the police." She shoves me a few times before I feel my legs start to move me away from the fray.

"Don't worry about it—she's just a bitch."

I'm not sure who said it; I don't even care. I whip around, trying to get back to those bastards, knocking a chair out of my way, sending it flying across the floor. "Don't you—"

"Chandler, no!" Monica screams, jumping in front of me, putting both of her hands on my chest, trying to stop me.

"Get him out of here, Monica," someone yells. "Before I call the cops!"

She gives my chest a hard shove, pushing me back a few steps until I finally turn around, letting her steer me toward the kitchen door. The cooks stare at me as Monica pushes my back, forcefully guiding me through the kitchen and out the employee entrance.

I storm down the alley, kicking the lid of a garbage can out of my way, feeling satisfied as it bangs off the wall.

"Chandler! Where are you going?" I hear Monica calling to me, but I can't stop; I burst out onto the sidewalk, taking a left to get away from the bar. "Stop! Please, stop!"

Of course; it's not as if I could refuse her anything, anyway. I stop in my tracks, covering my eyes with a shaking hand; my right hand is starting to throb from pummeling that jerk, but I push it aside.

I feel her hands on my upper arms, squeezing me gently, trying to get my attention; I can't bring myself to look at her. I'm still furious with that man inside, but shame at my behavior is starting to kick in, as well as a myriad of other emotions, all coming to the surface at once.

"What happened back there?" she asks, and I'm surprised that I don't hear any sort of anger or condemnation in her voice, just concern. That's probably valid—it's not as if I've ever done anything like that before. Even in the worst of my drunken stupors, my barroom brawls _never_ got that bad, and they were always two-sided. I've never just beat up a man like that before.

But…he was touching Monica. And not in a way that she enjoyed.

I couldn't stop myself.

I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

"I can't do this," I mumble.

"Can't do what?"

"This."

"'This'?" she repeats, her voice growing louder, frustration starting to come through. "What 'this?' What do you mean, 'this'?"

"This, Monica!" I yell, finally looking up at her. "This! Whatever this is." I point back and forth between us.

"What're you talking about? You're—"

"I thought I could do this," I interrupt. "I thought I could be your friend. I thought I could see you every day and think of you like a little sister and that I wouldn't feel anything for you, but I was wrong." Her eyes grow wide, her mouth dropping open, but I barrel on. In for a penny, in for a pound. "This isn't working. Whatever it is between us is too strong to just ignore." I take a couple of steps forward, taking her face in my hands, ignoring the pain radiating from my knuckles. "I'm…over the moon about you, Monica. If you don't feel the same about me, fine, but I couldn't go another moment without telling you. I can't watch other men put their hands all over you and pretend that it doesn't bother me. This is killing me. I see you every day, and every day I dread the moment that we part. I can't sleep at night because I can't wait to see you the next day. I find any and every excuse I can to see you, and you can't honestly tell me that you didn't know that."

She looks stunned, her mouth opening and closing as she tries to form a sentence. "I…I didn't…you…but…"

"I'm crazy about you," I whisper. "I have been since the first moment I saw you. It gets stronger every day, and every day it's harder to fight it. I don't _want_ to fight it…but I will, if I have to. I don't want to, but I will. But if there's even one little bit of you that thinks you could ever feel the way for me that I feel for you—even if that day is way down the road—I will fight it. I'll fight it until you're ready. I'll spend time with you and be your friend and I'll wait." I feel her fingers tighten on my biceps, her eyes shiny as she stares up at me, dumbfounded.

"I want you to be mine. I _need_ you to be mine. You're my whole world, Monica. You make me want to be a better man. But if you'll only ever see me as your friend or…or as your brother, then we have to stop this now. I can't live with that. I can't." She blinks and tears slide down her cheeks; I carefully wipe them away with my thumbs. "Think about it. I don't need an answer right now, but…think about it."

She stares up me, still silent, tiny snowflakes catching on her eyelashes, and I desperately want to kiss her. I want to show her how I feel, and I need to know what it's like to feel her lips on mine but…I don't. I won't do that. If she ever kisses me, I want it to be because she's ready and she wants to, not because I'm taking something from her. I'd be no better than that man inside who manhandled her. Instead, I pull her close and wrap my arms around her; her body is shaking and that's when I realize that we're standing in the middle of the sidewalk, it's freezing, it's starting to snow, and she's wearing nothing but her tiny little uniform. I give her a quick squeeze and pull back, taking her face in my hands again. "Go inside before you catch your death." I kiss her forehead and turn, walking away from her. My legs are shaking. I can't believe I just said all that.

Oh, my God, what have I done?

"Chandler?"

I can't look at her. I pick up my pace.

I don't know what I'll see if I look at her. Pity? Anger? Confusion? All of those?

I think I'm going to be sick.

"Chandler, please."

She's the most amazing woman in the world, and I think I've lost her forever.

"Chandler?" Her voice is faint; I don't know how far I am from her now, and I still can't bring myself to find out.

My heart constricts painfully.

What if she doesn't need time? What if she feels the same way and that's why she's calling for me?

But…what if she _doesn't_ feel the same and wants to break it to me now?

I need to hold on to my dream. Just for a little while longer.

* * *

><p>*AN...I have a favor to ask of you guys. Stick with me on this. I'm going to make a request for reviews but not for myself. Reviews for this story have been simply lovely (though I'm never opposed to more of them-let's break some records!), and I'm truly grateful for each and every one. Actually, I'm asking for reviews for others. I know this sounds random, but hear me out. There are a bunch of great writers here that put forth a LOT of effort into their stories, and they're great. These people here are awesome. They're kind and generous and talented (you know who you are). Sometimes people write to be creative, sometimes they write to escape...there are tons of different reasons, but what we should remember is that they're taking the time out of their lives to contribute to this awesome fandom. I can't make people review (and I'm the first to admit that I tend to forget to, too), but please consider it. You don't have to be signed in or even be a member to comment on a story that speaks to you in some way. I know from personal experience that it means the world to us, and I think there are a lot of under appreciated writers out there. I don't know-maybe I'm feeling sentimental because of the season, maybe there's a lot of other stuff going on that makes me want to appreciate the people around me more, doesn't matter. Show a writer some love and give them a review. It's free! Plus, it'll make someone feel really good about themselves and this crazy, odd world we're all a part of.

Thanks for reading :)


	13. Chapter 13

I lean my head against my hand, my elbow propped up on the arm of the couch. I feel a tear trickle down my cheek and I wipe it away with my shoulder.

I've never been so miserable in my entire life.

It seems like an exaggeration to say it, but it's true.

I haven't seen Chandler in three weeks.

Not since that night.

That night that changed _everything_.

The trouble is, I'm still not really sure what happened.

Everything was fine as far as I knew. We were busier than usual, but that was it.

That wretched man kept staring at me—I remember that. He wasn't even subtle about it; he just gaped down the front of my shirt. I forced myself to ignore him, the way I ignore all the other men who do the same thing, to me _and_ the other girls.

It's gotten easier to do that in the last few months, mostly because I learned how to maneuver quickly around roaming hands without making it _look_ like I was trying to get away from them.

But this man in particular got far too friendly; his hand was suddenly on my behind, but before I could completely turn around, Chandler had him pinned on the table as he pounded his face, yelling that the man was not to touch me.

It's all a blur, and no one really saw what happened beforehand. I pulled Chandler off him the best I could, the man called me an awful word, Chandler tried to attack him again, I got him out to the street before he could get arrested, and…

I think he told me he loves me.

My heart starts to pound even as more tears leak out of my eyes.

I'm pretty sure that's what he was telling me. I've never heard a confession of love before except in books and movies.

I honestly don't know.

I'm so confused.

And scared.

And I miss him. He hasn't been to the Lounge since that night. I don't think he told Ross about what happened because all my brother has told me is that Chandler's staying away from the Lounge so he doesn't get into or cause trouble again.

He hasn't even shown up to walk me home at night. I thought he would at least do that. I like to think he's at least watching from a distance like he used, making sure I'm safe, but I can't be sure.

I need to talk to him. He told me to think about what he said, and that's all I've been able to do for weeks. But I need to talk to him about this because I don't know what I feel.

I know that since the first moment I saw him, I've been drawn to him. I know that I'm happy when I'm near him. I know that all I want to do is spend more time with him. I know he's all think about, and that the thought of losing him scares me more than anything else ever has.

I just need to see him.

But I can't find him. I keep checking "our" roof, hoping that he's there or at least some sign that he's been there, but nothing so far.

I want to talk to Phoebe about this, but I don't know how. She keeps asking me about the fight and Chandler and all of it, and I can't give her an answer. I can't figure out where to begin, especially after I insisted all those months ago that I didn't think of Chandler that way. I'm sure she knew I was lying, but she never called me on it. She hasn't really pushed this, either, fortunately.

I pull my feet onto the sofa, wrapping my arms around my knees. I bury my face against my legs, tears soaking the skirt of my dress.

I really wish I had a mother. Maybe I could talk to her about this. Maybe I would be better prepared for this. Maybe I wouldn't feel like such a scared, lost little girl right now. I know I can't talk to my grandmother about this; she's from a different time and very old-fashioned. I don't know if she ever even kissed Grandpa before they got married. What's more, I don't know that she'd care. She's been growing more and more frustrated with me and my moping and my crying, trying to get me to leave the apartment during my time off.

I haven't felt much like socializing, though.

"For heaven's sake, Monica, will you give it a rest?"

I lift my head a little to see my grandmother standing at the edge of the living room, hands on her hips as she glares at me. "Sorry, Grandma," I mumble, wiping my face with the back of my hand. I don't know why she's never taken to me the way she did to Ross—all I know is that she views me as more of a burden than her granddaughter.

"Don't be sorry, just stop. All I've heard from you for weeks now is sniffling and whimpering. Why aren't you off with your friends?"

I shrug a little, crossing my arms on my knees and putting my head down again. She mumbles something about silly little girls and clicks on the radio. A voice blares out the news, very official and dramatic sounding, and somehow I realize it's not time for the news. I look up at the clock on the wall; it's only the middle of the afternoon. I sit up a little straighter and look at my grandmother, who's staring at the radio in concern.

Wait…did they just say we've been attacked?

Japan dropped bombs on us? Is that what I'm hearing?

None of it makes any sense. I didn't even know Japan had entered the war.

"Grandma, what—"

"Shhhh!" She drops down on the couch beside me, taking my hand in hers. I don't know if I understand completely what I'm hearing—nothing is making sense. Reports are coming in from the other side of the country that are saying Hawaii has been attacked.

This has to be a hoax.

I know there's a war going on in the world, but we're not part of it.

Why would someone attack us?

I squeeze my grandmother's hand as my mind freezes—if this is true, this would _have_ to mean we're joining the war.

Wouldn't it?'

I don't imagine anyone would be able to sit idly by after being bombed.

But if we join the war…

Oh, my God, Ross.

And Chandler.

Chandler…

What will happen to them?

I know what'll happen to them. They'll receive their orders and be shipped out

I feel a sob bubble out of me and I jump off the couch. I rush over to the front door and grab my coat off the rack.

"Monica, what are you doing?" my grandmother asks, sounding strained, but I ignore her.

I have to find him.

I slam the door behind me and race down the stairs, barely taking time to pull on my coat.

Part of me realizes this is insane—I haven't been able to track down Chandler for three weeks. What makes me think I can do it now?

The rest of me doesn't care. I _have_ to see him.

I burst out onto the street, my breath forming little white puffs in front of me as I spin in a circle, trying to figure out where to go.

I feel so lost—I don't know where to start.

Finally, I pick a direction, pointing myself toward the abandoned building we use as our own and start running. The streets are quiet; most people probably stayed in because of the cold and are now listening to this horrible, horrible news coming in. All I can hear is my heavy breathing as I run.

I skid past the doorway Chandler and I use and grab at the side of the building, trying to slow myself down. My feet fly out from under me and I land hard on my side—I'm sure it'll hurt later, but I drag myself back to my feet, pushing through the doorway and running up the stairs, using the banister to propel myself forward. I don't know why I'm in such a hurry to get to the roof; it's not as if he's been here lately. Maybe it's just so I can move on with my search. I don't care how many hours I have to search or how many places I have to drag myself to; I don't care if I have to go to the seediest, most disgusting places he used to frequent; I don't care. I _will_ find him.

I throw open the door to the roof, panting as I look around, feeling disappointment rush through me when I don't see him. I tell myself it doesn't matter as I hurry forward, taking a quick look around; this is just the first stop.

Then there he is, leaning against the ledge of the roof as he looks out over the city. My breath catches in my throat and I pinch myself to make sure I'm not imagining him.

I don't know if he senses me or I make a noise but he turns around and I feel relief flood over me as I see him—really see him—for the first time in far too long. He looks so sad, so scared, so lost. He looks like all the things I've been feeling for the last few weeks and then some.

My knees start to shake and I think I'm going to fall over. He stands quietly, watching me. Waiting.

Finally, I force myself forward, taking a couple of unsteady steps until I just throw caution to the wind and hurl myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck and holding on as tightly as I can. I feel his arms go around my waist and my legs really do give out as I sob into his neck.

"Shhh," he whispers into my ear. "It's okay. It's okay."

"How can you say that? Aren't you scared? Aren't you terrified about what's happening?"

"I guess you were listening to the radio," he says softly and I laugh despite myself.

"Of course, you dummy, and I knew I had to find you. My first thought was that I had to see you."

His arms tighten around me. "Why?"

"Chandler…" I say softly. "You're so important to me; don't you know that? These last few weeks have been agony without you. Nothing feels right unless you're with me." I take a few deep, shuddery breaths, breathing him in, feeling how warm and solid he is against me. "I can't lose you."

"But why, Monica?" he whispers. He pulls back from me, taking my face in his hands, searching my eyes. "Why can't you lose me?"

I move my hands to his cheeks, too, stroking his jaw with my thumbs. "Because I love you."

I know it's true; as soon as the words leave my lips I know what I've been fighting for so many months, and what I've been torturing myself over since he told me that I was his whole world.

That's what this ache in my chest has been.

That's why everything feels so much better when I'm with him.

I'm in love.

He smiles at me, his eyes lighting up. "You do?"

I nod my head vigorously. "I lov—" He cuts me off, silencing me with his lips on mine. I feel a whimper in my throat as my eyes fall shut. I've never kissed anyone before, not for real, and certainly never like this. I have no basis for comparison, but it feels perfect.

His hand cradles my head gently, his mouth moving against mine softly. I stand on my tiptoes, trying to get closer to him. My lungs are burning but I don't care. I wrap my arms around him again, holding on to him as tightly as I can.

His head tilts and I can hear him hum happily in the back of his throat. I can't help but smile, and our teeth clack together and I giggle a little, finally breaking away for air. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

"For what?" he asks, pressing his forehead to mine. I look up at him; his face is all distorted from this angle, but it doesn't matter—he's here.

"I've never done this before."

"Done what? Kiss?" I nod and see him smile. "Can't tell on my end." He leans down and kisses me again, and this time is better than the first. The whole world falls away. All the horror and the bad stuff and the uncertainty disappear and all that's left are me and Chandler and our roof.

One of his hands holds the back of my head, the other wraps around my waist, pulling me against him, our bodies flush against each other. I feel as if I could melt. _Nothing_ has ever felt like this. My heart is pounding in my chest, I feel dizzy, and weak, and…complete.

He pulls away from me again, slowly, kissing me softly a few times, and it's all so beautiful I feel my heart breaking. "I love you," I whisper against his lips. Now that I've said it, I want to say it all the time. It's what I've wanted to say for a long time but just didn't know it.

"I love you, too, Monica," he says softly, his hands framing my face once more, and my heart starts to beat so quickly I think it's going to explode. Tears slide down my cheeks again, and I feel his thumbs gently wipe them away. "Why're you crying?"

I just shrug. "I don't know. I'm just so happy. _You_ make me so happy."

He smiles down at me tenderly. "Not as happy as you make me."

Inexplicably, I feel a rush of irritation go through me. I pull my arm back and punch his shoulder. His mouth drops open as he lets go of me, rubbing his arm. "Oww! What the hell, Monica? Why do you always have to hit me?"

"Don't you EVER do that to me again." I see confusion pass over his face. "You can't just tell me that I'm your whole world then disappear! You can't! You can't say all those wonderful things to me, tell me to think about it, and just vanish from my life. I was so scared, Chandler. I was scared about what you said and scared about what I was feeling and you weren't there. You weren't anywhere. I didn't know what to do, I didn't know how to find you—"

"Breathe," he tells me, putting his hands on my shoulders and I take a deep breath in. "I'm sorry. I was scared, too. You're the first person I've really felt something for, and to feel it all so intensely…I didn't know how to deal with it. Obviously. I've never attacked another person like that before and then I bared my soul to you and…I got scared. I was terrified that you only thought of me as your big brother and that I'd just ruined everything with you so I ran. I've always run away."

I grab the front of his shirt and pull him closer to me, resting my forehead against his chest. "Well…stop it."

I feel him chuckle, his arms sliding around me again. "I'll try." I press my ear against his chest, his heart thumping quickly; it's the most beautiful sound in the world.

"I don't know how long we have together," I whisper, fear washing over me at last. "People are bombing us and…"

"I know," he answers, pulling me closer. "I know. It's probably inevitable now."

I screw my eyes shut and bite my lip—I just got him; I can't lose him now. "Let's run away together," I whisper.

"What?"

"Let's do it. We'll…go to Canada. No one will ever find us."

"We can't do that, Monica," he says softly, stroking my hair.

"Why not? They don't need you, but _I_ do. I don't want to lose you."

"Monica…"

I know how crazy I sound. I know and I don't care. If he said yes, I'd run away in an instant.

"I know," I finally answer.

"I love you. I love you _so_ much, but I signed on for this. I have a duty to our country now. If they tell me I have to go to war, then I have to go to war."

I feel my breathing coming in short gasps, the thought of it all now more real and terrifying than ever. "Chandler."

"Look at me, Monica." I tilt my head back as I struggle for air, finding his eyes. "I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. Hell, I don't know what's going to happen five minutes from now. All I do know is that I love you more than anything else in this world and if all we have is five minutes together, they will be the best five minutes anyone has ever had. Until I'm told otherwise, we'll spend as much time together as the world will allow. I don't want us to take anything for granted; every second counts. We'll _make_ every second count."

"I feel like I just found you, Chandler. I'm not ready to lose you."

"You won't. Not ever. I will always be yours."

I feel my eyes fill with tears and look away. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

"Hey." I look at him out of the corner of my eye. "I intend to keep this promise. I will _always_ be yours and I will _always_ find a way to you."

"Tell me again," I whisper, and he furrows his forehead in confusion for a moment before smiling at me gently.

"I love you."

I slide my hand around his neck, pulling his face to mine. I press my lips against his, feeling him pull me against his body once more.

He's right—we _don't_ know what the future will bring. All we can do is try to face it.

Together.

* * *

><p>*AN...can I just take a moment to say, "holy crap?" I am beyond humbled by the number of reviews that last chapter got. It was unbelievable, and more appreciated that I can possibly express. Anything after that is going to feel like a let down ;) I'm totally kidding. But seriously, it does a person good to know that something they've written can reach people that way, so thank you for all of your support. You're all too kind :)


	14. Chapter 14

All I want right now is to see Monica. She's the only thing in this world that can make me feel better.

Despite the day, I can't help but smile a little.

She loves me. Monica loves me. I've bared my soul to her, told her the worst of me, and she still loves me.

I don't know what I did to deserve her; all I know is that I'm going to do everything in my power to do right by her.

I just need to hold her. I need to feel her arms around me, her heart beating against her chest, her lips on mine…

I shiver a little and pull the collar of my coat up around my ears, even though the chills running down my spine have more to do with that tiny little woman than anything else.

Maybe it was naïve of me, but I wasn't expecting her to feel so…right. I didn't expect her to fit against me so perfectly, as if we were made for each other. She's better than anything I possibly could have dreamed of, and all we've done is kiss.

I feel like I never truly kissed anyone before her. I know that sounds absurdly romantic, but that's how it feels. It almost makes me sorry that I fought my feelings for so long, but maybe we needed that time to fall in love.

Though maybe if I'd told her sooner, it wouldn't feel as if every moment could be the last one.

We're going to war. The President said so today. He said yesterday is "a day that will live in infamy." I feel that's truer of today because now I know that at any moment, I will be receiving my orders to ship out and…that could be that.

My hands start to shake as my stomach ties into a knot.

I could die.

No; I will likely die.

I'm going to be sent overseas to some war-torn country and fight a battle I don't understand or even know if I believe in and maybe die.

Monica's idea to run away together sounds really good right about now.

I know it's fast, but I just want to spend my life with her. I want to find some little house somewhere and marry her and have a dozen babies and just be happy.

Maybe if I make it through all this, we can have that.

I don't know if my mother entirely thought the terms of her conditions through—I know she wanted me to learn discipline and respect and that I needed to clean up my act, but I don't think she understood that enlisting meant that I could die.

I don't want to die.

I don't want to fight, I don't want to do any of it. I know horrible things are going on in the world and I know we should try to stop it, but that doesn't mean I have to be comfortable with any of it.

The world is a cruel place sometimes, and not just because of the obvious reasons, but also because the day the woman I love more than anything else in this world tells me she feels the same way, Japan decides that killing a bunch of our people is a swell idea.

I know that it's self-centered of me to think this way; truly, there are things going on right now that are much worse than falling in love with an amazing girl only to know you have to leave her soon. That doesn't mean I can't be angry at the circumstances.

I pick up my pace a little as I realize I'm in her neighborhood, the abandoned building we've spent so much time hiding in just a few blocks ahead. I have no idea if she'll even be there right now, but I have to find out. If not, I'll track her down at her grandmother's apartment or at Phoebe's or wherever I have to. I just need to see her right now.

I walk a little faster, my feet taking the lead, all of me eager to see Monica.

My girlfriend.

I can't help but grin a little at that.

She's my girl.

I turn into the doorway and all but run up the stairs.

"Chandler!"

I skid to a halt, Monica's voice ringing through the stairwell. I look around and see that, in my haste, I ran right past her. She smiles up at me from two floors down.

"What're you doing down there?" I ask as I try not to break my neck getting to her.

"The roof is too cold. I brought all the blankets down here so we wouldn't freeze to death."

I nod, only half-listening. As soon as I can, I reach for her, our arms going around each other. I bring one hand up to her face, stroking her cheek for a moment before she stands on tiptoe, pressing her lips to mine.

She's really good at this. She told me yesterday that it's not something she's ever done before, but…she's really good at kissing. Her fingers run through my short hair, sending a new set of shivers down my spine and I pull her closer. I feel like I can't get her close enough.

I feel her slowly sink down, her feet coming to rest on the floor, but I chase her lips, not ready to stop kissing her. I feel her smile against my lips and I grin in response. Despite all the horror in the world right now, we have this. It may just be a few moments at a time, but I'll take what the world will give me.

I finally pull my lips from hers, breathing heavily, her warm breath just as uneven against my cheek. "I love you," I whisper.

She looks up at me, smiling even though her eyes are sad. "I love you, too."

I slide my hands down her arms, lacing our fingers together. "You heard?"

I see tears fill her eyes and my heart breaks. "I heard."

"War," I say softly, disbelievingly.

Her fingers squeeze mine and she steps closer, resting her forehead against my chest. "It doesn't feel real," she whispers. I feel myself begin to shake and I take a few deep breaths. I don't want to panic in front of her.

I give her a gentle nudge and guide her into the empty office she emerged from, most of the furniture long-since scavenged. Our chairs and blankets are piled in a corner. I sit down on one of them and she follows me, curling onto my lap. Together, we pull one of the blankets around us and I breathe her in deeply. She buries her head in my neck, close enough so I can feel her eyelashes tickling my jaw. Tentatively, I rest my hand on her thigh, waiting to see if she'll push me away. Instead, she sighs and wraps her arms around my middle.

Today we should be celebrating. We should be off doing something to let the world know how we feel about each other. We should be out to dinner or at a movie or anything but this right now.

The world had other ideas.

What's that saying? The surest way to make God laugh is to make plans?

I know it's selfish, but I don't care. I just want the world to stop for a little while so I can concentrate on this girl in my arms. And maybe it's not selfish at all to wish that war wasn't happening. Maybe it's the best thing anyone could wish for.

"I'm scared," I whisper, the words escaping me before I can help it.

She nods against my neck, her arms tightening. "Me, too."

"I don't want to die."

"I don't want you to die, either," she answers, her voice choked. A moment later, I feel her tears against my skin and I rest my cheek on the top of her head.

"I'm sorry; I don't want you to cry. I'm sorry."

"Chandler, it's all right. I'm an emotional mess right now. The love of my life _and_ my brother are going to be shipped off any day now; I'm going to cry. It's inevitable. I don't want you to think that you can't tell me that you're scared, though."

I grab her leg gently, pulling her closer. "I'm the love of your life? Are you sure? I mean, you just told me yesterday that you love me—"

She lifts her head, pressing a couple of fingers gently against my lips. "There are some things in this world you just _know_, and I just _know_ that I will never love anyone as much as I love you. I know I'm only eighteen and maybe that's young to be so sure about something like this, but I can't help how I feel. What I feel for you…isn't small. It fills up every part of me. It's forever. I don't care how childish it sounds."

I give her fingertips a kiss and drag my hand out from under the blanket, stroking her cheek carefully. She moves her fingers from my mouth, softly playing with the collar of my shirt. "It doesn't sound childish to me. I feel the same way about you, Monica. Like you said, it's a lot really fast, but I don't care. I don't know—maybe I haven't loved you since the first moment I saw you, but it was pretty damn close. All I want is to be with you."

"Then we can't let this hang over our heads all the time. We both know that, right now, the future is…"

"Dismal," I finish for her. "You're right. We can't stop the war from happening."

"You said it yesterday; we have to make every moment count." She gives me a small smile; I can feel her nails gently tracing against my throat. "What should we do to make this moment count?"

My breath catches in my throat for a moment—I know she's not suggesting what it sounds like she's suggesting. Even if she were, I wouldn't let it happen; not here, not now. Instead, I shift in my chair a little, pulling her closer. "All I want to do right now is be together. I know that's not terribly exciting—"

"It is to me. I've want to just be with you for months now."

I swear she's trying to make me melt completely. "Me, too."

She tilts her head to the side just a little. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

I reach up and tuck a few strands of her hair behind her ear. "Like what?"

She shrugs a little, leaning her cheek into my hand. "Like you adore me."

I pull her face a little closer to mine. "Well, that's because I do."

Her eyes grow wide and a lovely shade of pink spreads across her cheeks. Before she can answer, I stretch up and kiss her gently. I hear her take a deep breath in surprise though she responds eagerly. "We did this for hours yesterday; aren't you tired of me?"

I pull back, looking at her in shock. "Are you serious? I don't think I could _ever_ get tired of kissing you."

"Are you sure I'm good at it?" she asks shyly, her eyes focusing anywhere but my face. "I mean…"

"Monica, I love kissing you. It's perfect. It's better than I imagined, and I've imagined it a lot over the last few months."

She takes my hand, playing with my fingers as she looks at me from under her lashes. "What else have you imagined?"

I swallow heavily as I feel myself react in ways I shouldn't be reacting. "Oh, Monica. You don't want me to answer that."

"Why not? You can tell me anything."

I have to remind myself constantly about how young she is. Young and inexperienced and naïve. The last thing I want to do is scare her or hurt her or push her to do something she's not ready for. This is the one that matters. What I have with Monica is going to be forever, and the last thing I want to do is jeopardize my future with her. We have enough against us as it us without me resorting back to my old, horrible behaviors. "Maybe when we've been together for more than a day I'll tell you."

She sighs, linking our fingers together as she rests her head on my shoulder. "Is this what we're going to do—pretend that the war isn't happening?"

"Sounds good to me," I answer, my arm that's still around her waist tightening against her.

"Is that the smartest thing to do?"

I just shrug, kissing the top of her head. "I know I don't want to talk about it more than I have to. I also know that when I'm with you, you're the only thing that matters. I know the world is at war—we both do. And we both know that our President has said America's entering the war, too. We don't need to talk about it all the time to make it true. If we're lucky enough to have a few minutes together, I don't want to spend those moments talking about the horror going on in the world."

"Can we sometimes talk about what's going to happen after you come home?"

I squeeze her a little tighter. I appreciate that she doesn't say "if" I come home—we both know I'll be sent away, but she believes I'll be coming back in one piece.

"You mean, the part about us being together forever?"

She nods, and I can see her cheeks curve up in a smile. "Yeah; that part."

"Sure we can talk about that. But, Monica, for now…can I just kiss you? Can we just pretend that we're a normal couple and we're sneaking away for a few moments?"

She angles her head a little to look at me. "That's all we are, Chandler. Just an ordinary couple." Her arms wrap around my neck and I kiss her, gently at first, but with growing urgency. She meets me kiss for kiss, both of us knowing that we're hiding from the world, both of us scared to lose what we've just found.

* * *

><p>*AN...so, I don't usually do this because I could go on forever, but this is what happens when I can't PM someone, so here goes:

Anissa-Ross was there, but not nearby. He knew about the fight but not why it happened, and Chandler & Monica weren't telling. And I take it as a compliment that a 3000 word and some change chapter felt like it wasn't long enough ;)

So, seriously, thank you for all the feedback. It's really touching and moving and all those other sappy things. You're all wonderful, and never worry about "repeating" yourselves because, and I think I speak for every writer here, that no one can hear the same compliment enough. If you happen to think something is great and you want to say it over and over again, I will not turn that away.


	15. Chapter 15

The mood of the Moonlight Lounge was quite somber for a few days; after the President announced that we'd be entering the war, most people didn't really feel like whooping it up. But over the last few nights, it feels like things are returning to normal. Now that the complete shock of the announcement has worn off, it seems that a lot more people want to try to live their lives to the fullest while they can.

I place my hand lightly on the back of Chandler's neck, looking over his head to my brother as Phoebe cleans off their table. "We'll be out in a few minutes."

Ross nods as Chandler's hand drops to his side, his fingers tickling the back of my knee, hidden from sight by the table in front of him. I feel my entire body shiver at his touch and I swallow hard. I'm sure Chandler's well-aware of my reaction to him, and if he wasn't trying to play it cool in front of Ross, he'd be grinning wildly right now.

I've only been with Chandler for a little over a week, but it's been the best time of my life. I live for the moments when he walks me home after work and we can go hide for a few minutes, kissing each other senseless, our hands going everywhere…it all keeps getting better and better.

We both decided to try to keep our relationship quiet for a while, at least until we can get used to the idea of "us" a little more. Plus, we aren't really sure how to tell Ross or how he'll react. Unfortunately, it's getting harder and harder to hide what we feel for each other around other people. Just a couple of hours ago, Chandler followed me into the hall next to the coat room and pinned me against the wall, kissing me hungrily. Anyone could have stumbled on us, least of all Ross. One of the other girls could have seen us and ratted—the boss-man doesn't care what we do on our own time, but he wants us to look unattached when we're working. I'm sure if someone found me kissing my boyfriend in the hallway, I would have been in heaps of trouble, especially since my boyfriend is the same one who started that fight last month.

Poor Chandler was so nervous about coming back to the Lounge, but in the end he didn't want to spend that time away from me. He's been minding his Ps and Qs, keeping quiet and to himself for the most part and not losing his temper when he sees another man hit on me. Now, we're nearly undressing each other in public, his teeth biting at my neck just hard enough to leave faint marks, which might be his way of marking his territory. I don't think it's that he doesn't trust me; it's that he doesn't trust some of the clientele. He's all I have eyes for, though.

I never knew being in love would be this intense. I constantly feel like I'm on high alert, anticipating his touch anytime he's near me. I miss him when he's not around, even if he's sitting at his table and I'm in the kitchen. True, I felt this way about him before, but it's gotten stronger in the last few days.

I crave him. Even as we're kissing, I can't wait to kiss him again.

I snap myself out of my reverie, nudging Chandler lightly with my hip; he gives me one final tickle and moves his hand. "We'll be waiting," he tells me casually as Phoebe swats Ross with her dirty rag, walking away before he can respond to her.

"One of these days," he says, balling his fist half-heartedly.

"What?" Chandler asks. "You'll shake your fist impotently?"

He gives Chandler a blank look as I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. Without a word, he gets up, grabbing the remains of his drink as he walks away. In an instant, I feel Chandler's hand on my back and I bend down, scanning the room as I go to make sure no one's around.

I sigh with relief as his lips find mine, my hand sliding to the back of his head to pull him closer. "This has to be quick," I mumble against his lips, kissing him slowly despite my words.

"Mmmhmmm," he answers, his fingers sliding just under the edge of my top, his touch electrifying. A moment later he pulls away and stares straight ahead, his heavy breathing the only indication of his state. "Go get changed."

I reach out and wipe the edge of his mouth with my thumb, removing my lipstick. "Love you," I say softly.

"I love you so much," he answers softly, refusing to look at me.

I ruffle his hair gently and hurry into the kitchen in time to see Phoebe walking into the dressing room.

"Phoebe," I call after her, following her into the changing are. "Phoebe, I need to talk to you."

"Okay," she answers with a shrug. "Go ahead."

I look around—most of the other girls have gone home by now, but a few are still changing. I grab my friend's arm and pull her into the corner near our clothing. "First I need to tell you something. It's about—"

"You and Chandler? Yeah, I already know."

My mouth drops open for a moment before a grin pulls at the corners of my mouth. "I guess I haven't been doing the best job of hiding it, having I?"

Phoebe scoffs, grabbing her undergarments and blouse, pulling off her halter top without thinking about it. "Not really."

"Do you think Ross knows?" I ask, averting my eyes

"Ha! Ross? Your brother Ross? No. I don't think he has any idea."

"Well, that brings me to what I really want to ask." I take a deep breath and lose my courage. Instead, I grab my own clothes, pulling my skirt on over my shorts before pushing those down my legs.

Phoebe sighs with just a hint of impatience, turning to look at me as she fiddles with the straps of her brassiere. Her eyes grow wide with concern, the look on my face probably giving away more than I want it to. "Monica, what is it?"

I bite my lip as I start to take off my halter, making sure my own brassiere is in place and everything is covered first. "I need you to tell me about sex," I mumble in a rush.

"_Excuse me_?" she yelps as she nearly chokes, shock written all over her face.

"Shh!" I whisper frantically, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one's paying attention. Fortunately, it looks like everyone else has left. "Please? I don't know who else to ask. I didn't have a mother, and I haven't had a lot of friends to talk to about this stuff. I've read about it a little in books, but…it's all so confusing."

She puts her hands on her hips, glaring at me. "What makes you think I know anything about it?" I mirror her position, giving her a disbelieving look. She glances down at herself, seeing that she's only in her skivvies and chuckles. "Good point. Well," she says, sitting down on a chair to pull on her thick winter stockings. "This is probably a longer conversation than we have time for right now. Were you planning on doing something _tonight_?"

I sputter for a few moments, fumbling with the buttons of my sweater. "No. No, not quite. I just know that it's going to happen at some point."

"And you're not planning to wait until you get married," she says, more of a statement than a question as she pulls on her slacks, standing to button them.

"I don't know. I should, right? I mean, I'm supposed to. I mean…Phoebe, I don't know. That's why I'm asking you."

"I suppose it'd be easier to find out what you _do_ know and go from there."

"Not much," I answer helplessly. "I know some of the basics; it's for making babies."

"That _is _a side effect, yes."

"Ummmm…some books I've read call it a 'wifely duty'—"

She holds out her hands, stopping me. "Ohh! Oh oh oh. Stop that right there. It's not a duty. If it's a 'duty,' you're doing it wrong." She pulls on her shirt and grabs my hands. "Monica, the most important thing I want you to remember about sex is that it's _fun_."

I think she could knock me over with a feather I'm so stunned. I may not know a lot about it, but I don't know that I've heard it called "fun." "It is?"

"Oh, it's _so much fun_. When you and Chandler get to that part, _have a good time_. Kiss him, have him kiss you, love the way his body feels on top of yours, climb on top of him, and trust yourself. If something doesn't feel right, it probably isn't. But you'll probably surprise yourself and find a whole big bunch of it very, _very_ agreeable."

"It's fun?" I ask, still shocked.

"You've been kissing each other, right?"

I feel my cheeks heat up a little even as I grin broadly. "Yes."

"Isn't that fun?"

I giggle a little and look away, pulling on my own stockings. Kissing him really _is_ fun. Feeling his fingers dig into my back or sometimes sliding gently down my legs, the way he pulls me against him and how I fit with him so nicely. His lips are so soft and delicate, but also firm and demanding. I love the way his fingers run through my hair and scratch at my scalp, and I love that I feel dizzy when we kiss. I love that I feel dizzy just being near him.

"I suppose so," I answer, clearing my throat, but Phoebe just grins at me knowingly.

"Well, imagine that and multiply it by at least ten."

"By ten?"

"At least."

Well, this is interesting. Books talk about procreation and duties, but someone I consider to be my closest friend says it's fun. I think I'm going to have to believe her.

"I have some other books you can borrow, if you want. They'll give you a better idea of what I'm talking about."

I stuff my feet in my shoes, pulling on my jacket and hat. "I don't know that I could have books like that at my grandma's apartment."

"So you come over and look at them at my place. That'll be even better because I can answer any questions you have."

"So, I don't _have_ to wait until I'm married?" I ask, trying to make sure I understand all of this.

"Not if you don't want to. But if you'd rather be married first, that's fine, too. People tell you a lot of different things about being with a man, but I've found that there aren't nearly as many rules as some would have you believe. It's all very personal."

"And it's really a lot fun?"

"So much fun. Monica, you are going to have _such_ a good time. Chandler looks like the sort of fella that knows what he's doing."

"Knows what he's doing about what?"

"We'll talk, I promise." She pulls on her own coat and hat, then puts a hand on my arm. "Hey. You planning to tell me about you and Chandler?"

"I'm sorry. I've wanted to, but we wanted to keep it to ourselves for a little while, just to get used to it."

She grins at me, giving my shoulder a little push. "Is it amazing?"

"Oh, Phoebe, I love him so much."

"What?" she asks, looking surprised. "You—you what?"

"I love him."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. I've never felt like anything like this before. I know what you're thinking," I say, holding up my hand to stop her from protesting. "You're thinking that I've never had a boyfriend before so how would I know if I actually love someone?"

"I'm happy for you. Really. You don't have to be a certain age to find the love of your life. Does he love you, too?"

I feel a familiar flutter in my heart, one that's been there for months but now finally has a name, and smile. "He does. He loves me, too."

"I can see that." She pauses for a moment, her hand on the door as she considers me. "Wait until I tell you about orgasms."

"What's an orgasm?"

"You'll see."

"Oh, come on, Phoebe."

"It's a conversation that will probably make you turn about ten different shades of red, but I promise it'll be worth it." With that, she slides out the door and heads through the kitchen. I hurry after her, my mind reeling.

I have no idea what she's talking about—should I? Or is this one of those things you can't learn in a book? Is it like her telling me that it's supposed to be fun? I'm assuming it's a fun part, judging by the look on her face.

Maybe I'm taking a big leap, assuming Chandler will want to do this with me. Then again, maybe I'm not. Chandler's already telling me that he wants to be with me forever; it's not that much of a stretch to assume he'd want to…

But we've only been together for a week—it's too early to think about this.

Right?

I'm already thinking about it, and it's not as if he's been bringing it up. He seems perfectly content to take it slow. Under normal circumstances, I might be, as well. But I feel as if I don't want to miss out on any experience with him. We don't know from day to day what's going to happen. What's worse is that I can't guarantee that he'll make it out of this alive. If the worst were to happen, I don't want to spend the rest of my life regretting not taking a chance and following what my heart is telling me to do.

It _is_ a relief to know that some of my preconceived notions about this whole situation may be a bit…misguided, at least if what Phoebe says is true. I'm sure she'll be willing to tell me everything she knows—probably more than I need to know. At least she didn't laugh at me or think I was foolish for asking. And I know so little about the entire subject that there's no way I can go into this blind.

When I'm with Chandler, I want it to be perfect. I know he has experience. He's been vague about it, but I know there have been women before me. I don't want him to have to walk me through the entire process; I want to be able to make him happy.

"About time." I'm jarred out of my thoughts by Ross's voice; he and Chandler are waiting for us just outside the employee entrance. "We almost froze to death waiting for you."

"Try being a man, Ross," Phoebe tells him, grabbing onto his arm and pulling him down the alley.

Chandler smiles down at me, his hands in his coat pockets. "Some people are worth freezing for," he tells me softly and my heart takes off at a gallop. He always knows how to say just the right thing.

I look down the alley; Phoebe's pushing Ross along, neither paying us any mind. I grin up at Chandler, standing on my tiptoes, holding onto his arm for balance. He immediately tilts his head down, his lips meeting mine in a brief, sweet kiss. A moment later, I lower myself to the ground and he holds out his elbow for me. I link my arm through his, sliding my hand into his pocket. His fingers immediately grab for mine, warming my own chilly fingers, and I know.

I just know.

* * *

><p>*AN...just as a warning, there's an extraordinarily strong possibility that the rating of this story will change in the very near future. If you can't find it on the main page, that's why ;)


	16. Chapter 16

Monica's fingers dig into my forearms and I turn my hands over, holding onto her elbows. "Relax, honey," I whisper, trying to catch her eye. I feel her arms shaking from the effort. "Breathe."

She takes a shuddery breath, looking up at me tentatively.

"I've got you. I won't let anything happen to you."

"You can't stop me from falling and breaking my neck," she tells me through gritted teeth.

"Monica, it's just ice skating."

"And you remember how successful I was at roller skating."

I chuckle, sliding my hands to her waist. She squeaks and fumbles, but I keep her steady. "You were fine at roller skating once you relaxed a little. Would it help if we sang?"

She grins at me, standing up a little straighter without realizing it. "It might help me, but I don't think anyone else wants to hear it."

"I thought our duet was lovely," I tell her.

"Compared to what?"

"Well, it was the first time we danced together."

She smiles a little wistfully, her grip on my arms loosening just a fraction. "It might be the only time we've danced together."

"I can fix that." I angle my feet, turning her in a wide circle. She shrieks and stumbles a little, but I hold on, keeping my hands firmly on her waist. Someone goes streaking past us, yelling in excitement, and I can't help but laugh when I realize it's Phoebe. She said she's never done a lot of skating, but that doesn't seem to slow her down. "Phoebe certainly has a lot of…what's that word you use? The one that means guts. Hurts-something?"

She looks at m blankly for a moment. "Chutzpah?"

"That's the one. Phoebe has a lot of chutzpah."

"That she does. But you don't have to learn Yiddish for me. _I_ don't even know a lot of it."

"I like the way it sounds. _Chutzpah_," I say with emphasis and she ducks a little.

"Careful; with Yiddish words comes an excess amount of spit."

I dip my head down to hers, breathing in her ear. "You don't seem to mind it any other time." She pinches my arm a little bit, but doesn't stop me from pressing my lips against hers for a few moments.

"Where's Ross?" she mumbles against my lips, and I pull her a little closer.

"I love when you talk about your brother while I'm kissing you," I tell her teasingly.

She rolls her eyes at me, smiling nonetheless. "Seriously, though."

I peak over her head before I glance over my shoulder. "Back there," I answer, gesturing with my head. She looks around the side of my arm, laughter bubbling out of her.

"He's worse at this than I am."

I maneuver around her carefully until I'm standing behind her, hands still at her waist, so we can both watch her brother fumble. I suggested we all go ice skating, and while Phoebe was happy to admit her lack of experience, Ross tried to brush off the fact that, like his sister, he's never done this before. I'm not sure if he thought he would pick it up with no trouble or what, but he's been skidding all over the pond since we got here. Naturally, Phoebe's been rubbing it in his face, skating as close to him as she dares and causing him to repeatedly topple over. Right now, he's actually shaking his fist at Phoebe as she moves in an awkward circle around him.

I give Monica a nudge, carefully pushing her legs forward with mine. "Just let me lead you," I whisper, and her body gradually relaxes as I guide her over the pond, weaving us carefully through rambunctious children, a group of guys playing a pick-up hockey game, and several people who genuinely look like they know what they're doing.

"Tell me about your ice skating lessons."

I pause for a moment before I remember telling her about it months ago. "It was an extracurricular offered at my school. There was a rink nearby and we were allowed to take lessons."

"How old were you when you started?"

"Six, I think. A couple of years later I started playing hockey with some of my classmates and in high school I joined our hockey team. Not terribly exciting."

"So, you're taking it easy on me right now."

I chuckle a little and kiss the side of her head. "Ice dancing was never one of my specialties. I'm just trying to help you learn."

"And here I thought you were just trying to get me in your arms."

I squeeze my arms gently around her middle. "It worked, didn't it?" She laughs but doesn't say anything. Instead, we skate quietly for a few minutes. "So, if we get married," I say tentatively, knowing full-well that I plan on marrying this girl; it's a matter of "when," not "if," but Monica stumbles a little anyway. "Will we have any troubles with you being Jewish?"

"I don't think my Judaism negatively affects a marriage."

"No, I meant—"

She giggles a little, cutting me off. "I'm teasing you, Chandler. You're talking about an inter-faith marriage, right?"

I don't entirely know why, but just hearing _her_ talk about marriage excites me in ways I didn't know were possible. Truthfully, I never thought much about marriage one way or another before Monica, and now that I know she loves me, I can't help put some serious thought into it. We've only been together for a few weeks, but I know this is for keeps. "Yes. That's exactly what I'm talking about."

"I can't say that I knew you had religion."

"I'm a lapsed Catholic," I answer with a shrug. "Technically, I have a religion, but I don't really participate."

"Well, you know that I haven't really been able to participate in my faith for a while." I nod, waiting for her to continue. "I don't know—I wouldn't think that it'd be problem. Our children would be Jewish, though. Does that bother you?"

"Only that I'd hate to see people harass them about. But Monica, as long as you're willing to do all that with me…I don't really care. I'll convert to Judaism if I need to."

She looks over her shoulder at me in surprise. "You'd do that for me?"

"I would do _anything_ for you."

I feel her feet slipping about for a few seconds before she makes a frustrated noise. "How do you stop in these things?" I slow us down and help her turn to face me when I see her struggling. "Chandler, you know I wouldn't ask that of you, don't you?"

"I know, and that's just another reason why I would. Being with you is the only thing that matters to me."

I feel her gloved hand slide across the back of my neck, pulling me down to her. "I love you," she whispers just before she kisses me. Her lips are cold for a few moments, but her mouth is warm and delicious, remnants of our earlier hot chocolate still on her breath. I really would do anything for her; change religions, cross an ocean, whatever she wants, anything at all, I'll give her.

Part of me can't believe I'm talking to Monica about marriage—we really haven't been together that long. But I know, without a doubt, that I want to be with her forever. I don't know how long forever is right now, but even if we grow old together, it won't be long enough. She was right when she told me that there are some things in this world you just _know_, and this little bitty woman is the one I want to be with forever.

"What are you doing?!"

Ross's voice echoing across the pond startles both of us and we jump apart; I barely catch us before we fall in a heap.

"Ohhhhhh, noooo," Monica moans, both of us turning our heads toward her brother's voice. He's sitting on the ice, ripping off his skates, and I look at Monica with a sigh.

"I guess we weren't being that careful," I tell her.

"Chandler! What are you doing to my _sister_?" Ross is on his feet now, sliding a little on the ice as he comes toward us, but still moving faster than I'm comfortable with.

"Ross," I say as calmly as I can, moving myself and Monica closer to the pond's edge where our shoes rest. "Calm down."

"'Calm down?' You're mauling my little sister! How do you expect me to calm down?"

"He's not _mauling_ me, Ross!" I give us a couple of quick pushes to get us off the ice; before we can get very far, Ross has managed to scramble toward us and Monica maneuvers herself in between me and what might possibly be certain death.

"What are you doing to her?" he shouts over Monica's head, and I glance around nervously—other people are starting to stare at us.

"I'm not doing _anything_ to her, Ross."

"That sure looked like something to me!" He takes another step closer, poking me in the shoulder. "You're supposed to be my friend."

"I _am_ your friend!" I exclaim, holding onto Monica's arms to, hopefully, keep us steady. "I am your friend, but I'm love with your sister."

His mouth drops open and backs up a couple of steps. "You're in love with her?"

I look down at Monica to find her already looking at me, and I smile at her gently. "I'm so very much in love with her."

"I love him, too, Ross," she says softly, her eyes never leaving mine.

"You do?"

She tears her eyes away from mine to look at her brother. "I do. I know you weren't expecting this, and I'm sorry we didn't tell you sooner, but…"

"We're trying to figure all of this out, too," I finish for her.

"How long?" he asks us, bafflement settling in.

"How long have we been together, or how long have I been in love with her? I can answer the first one, but probably not the second one." He opens and closes his mouth a few times, still looking stunned.

"Please, Ross," Monica says, reaching out to take his hand. "Please…be happy for me."

Before he can answer, Phoebe comes skidding past us, throwing herself into a snow bank so she can stop. She drags herself back to her feet and skates over to us. "What's going on?"

"Ross knows about us," Monica answers, and his mouth drops open.

"_She_ knew about you two?" He sounds offended, but I'm too busy trying to make sure I don't look shocked. I had no idea that Phoebe knew about us.

"Of _course_ I did," she answers, turning herself carefully so she's standing next to Ross. "Aren't they the most beautiful couple?"

I feel my face heating up despite the cold weather; I never would have expected Phoebe to say something like that.

"Huh?" Ross asks, making a face at us.

"Oh, come on, sailor, open your eyes. These two are perfect for each other and have been since the moment they met."

"I truly never thought about it."

She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at Monica. "Men."

"If I look good, it's only because of Monica," I say, tightening my fingers on her shoulder.

"See?" Phoebe says to Ross triumphantly. "Look how sweet he is to her."

Ross shakes his head, and I would swear he looks a little nauseated. "You two are in _love_? Monica, do you realize that any day now—"

"I know," she interrupts, and I can feel her whole body tense up. "Ross, I _know_, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if we have a day, a week, or a million years because I love him and I want to be with him."

The corner of Ross's mouth quirks up just a little, but he quickly wipes the smile off his face. "If you're sure, but you should know that he snores."

I nearly choke with laughter as I look down at Monica; her eyes grow wide. "Umm…" she says uncertainly, glancing up at me.

"Yeah; he snores. He's a little cocky and arrogant, too."

"Well, I know _that_," she answers, and I can see her eyebrow lift a little and a smile pull at her lips.

"Hey! I thought you were supposed to love me," I exclaim in mock-indignation.

"I do, but that doesn't mean I don't know that you're a little arrogant."

I bend down and kiss her cheek. "Well, you're a little violent and mean." She shrugs a little and I look back to Ross. "So, you're all right with this?"

"What choice do I have? Besides, you're my best friend. I can't think of anyone better to take care of her."

"Thank you, Ross," she says softly. "Now would you put your shoes on? You're going to catch your death."

We all look down and realize that Ross is standing on the ice in nothing but his socks. Immediately, he starts hopping from one foot to the other, the cold hitting him suddenly. Phoebe starts to laugh and covers her mouth, trying to hide her mirth. "I'm freezing over here, Phoebe," he exclaims.

"Obviously, since you've been standing on ice for the last five minutes with no shoes," she answers with a roll of her eyes. "Start walking, I'll try to skate over to your shoes and you can meet me in the middle." With that, she pushes off, stumbling and tripping for a few moments before she gets her bearings and starts to skate off to the rest of our belongings.

Ross starts to hop after her and I help push Monica forward to follow him when he comes to a stop, spinning to face us with surprising agility. "If you _ever_ hurt my little sister—"

"No chance, Ross," I assure him. "But if I do, you have my blessing to maim me as you see fit."

He looks surprised to hear me agree so quickly, but he tries to cover his shock by making a stern face at me. "That's right. So, don't hurt her."

"He _won't_, Ross," Monica answers, exasperated. "He loves me, remember?"

Ross points his finger at me, giving me a menacing look before he remembers his feet are cold and starts hopping after Phoebe. I cringe and give Monica a look.

"I think he really means that."

She shrugs a little. "Maybe. At least now we're not hiding."

"You're all right with that? I mean, I know we were still trying to adapt to all of this."

"What's to adapt to, really? When it comes down to it, this has been us from the start, or at least after you stopped stalking me. Ross and Phoebe are used to seeing us together, I don't think it'll be that big of an issue for them, and even if it is, it doesn't matter."

I bend down a little and kiss the tip of her nose. "You're very smart. But I do need to ask you something. How did Phoebe know about us?"

"Honestly, Chandler, I don't really know. I went to ask her about something, and she said if it was about you and me, she already knew. Maybe Ross is oblivious, but not her. But she's been asking me about you for months, and even when I told her I didn't like you, she knew it was a lie."

"Months?" I ask, a little surprised, but she just gives me another shrug.

"Whatever it is between us—the thing that you said is so strong—must be obvious to other people."

"I guess I didn't do a very good job of hiding my feelings for you."

"I didn't fare much better," she assures me. "But it doesn't matter now."

"You're right; it doesn't. Let's just be together as much as possible."

"I can agree to that."

I kiss her cheek before helping to guide her off the ice, holding onto her waist as we carefully trudge through the snow to the rest of our belongings. "What was it you asked Phoebe about?"

Even though her cheeks are a bit pink from the cold, a deep red spreads across her entire face. "Nothing."

"That is not a 'nothing' reaction, Mon," I tell her, bemused. "What was it?"

She grips onto my arm as she sits down on a fallen tree, pulling off her skates. "Can I tell you later?"

I position myself very carefully, my legs spread on either side of hers, and take her face gently in my hands. She looks up at me, just a hint of uncertainty in her eyes, and I lean down to kiss her. Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. When she wants to tell me, she'll tell me.

"Whenever you're ready, my love. Whenever you're ready."

* * *

><p>*AN…someone asked where this story will be if it's not on the main page, and I should clarify. It'll still be on the main page, but you'll have to search all ratings or specifically for "M" ratings. It won't show up by default if the rating's that high.


	17. Chapter 17

I settle against Chandler's side and he tightens his arm around my shoulders, warding off some of the chill of the late December evening. The sleigh pulls us down the snowy lane and I sigh happily even though I feel a little bit like a country bumpkin. I've never been in a sleigh before, but it's the easiest way to get us from the train station to his mother's house. Maybe it's me, but it's incredibly romantic.

I feel him press his lips to the side of my head and I can't help but smile. "It was awfully nice of your mother to let me come out here for Christmas."

"I think she needs the company," he tells me. "Besides; she likes you."

"She only met me once."

"I only had to meet you once before I knew I liked you."

I shake my head even though I feel my smile grow wider. "You didn't know you liked me the first time you met me."

"Monica, I couldn't stop thinking about you. All I wanted was for you to look at me or talk to me or just acknowledge my existence."

I turn my head and kiss his cheek, nuzzling my nose against the side of his face. "I couldn't stop thinking about you either, you know. I know I didn't act like it, but…I just wanted you to look at me, but all you were doing was pinching other girls."

He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me a little closer. "None of that matters now, though. You _certainly_ have my full attention."

I giggle a little as he tries to gloss over his past behavior but I don't mention it—it truly doesn't matter now. He doesn't behave that way anymore, and he has his reasons for acting like that. As long as I'm the only one in his life now, that's all I care about.

The sleigh rounds a corner and the Bing Estate comes into view, a couple of the front windows lit up in anticipation of our arrival, and I feel myself get excited all over again. Even though I've not really been able to celebrate Hanukah in a while, I've never gotten a chance to celebrate Christmas. I know it's usually a family holiday, so the fact that Mrs. Bing is letting me take part in the evening means a lot to me.

Last night was Christmas Eve, and Chandler could have come out here then, but I had to work. Today is the only day the Lounge is closed, and he wanted to wait for me. We'll make it in time for dinner, and he said that's the important part.

The sleigh comes to a stop in front of the house and Chandler steps out, taking my hand to help me down. He hands the driver the fare and moments later, the horse starts walking, making its way back down the lane. Chandler squeezes my fingers and leads me to the front door, giving it a knock before turning the handle.

He looks at me in surprise when it doesn't open and knocks again.

"She _is_ expecting us, isn't she?" I ask tentatively, but he just makes a face at me.

"Of course she is. She's the one who told me to come out for the day. Maybe she's just in the kitchen and can't hear us." He knocks again and reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a set of keys. He keeps our fingers entwined while searching one-handed for the right key. A few moments later he waves it at me triumphantly before unlocking the door, gently ushering me into the house.

"It's awfully quiet," I say softly, looking around the beautifully decorated front hallway; the spiral staircase has holly wrapped around the banister. "Wow," I whisper, and I feel his hands at my shoulders, gently pulling off my jacket. I hand him my hat and gloves, and he hangs my belongings beside his on the coat rack.

"Mother?" he calls, his hand going to the small of my back, giving me a gentle push, guiding me through archway into the sitting room. My eyes go wide as I take it all in—the last time I was here, Chandler gave me a brief tour and the entire house, of course, was beautiful, but with all of these decorations, it's breathtaking. A large pine tree is in the corner, delicate glass ornaments hanging off the bows and dozens of white lights twinkle at us amongst the needles. "She must be here," he assures me. "I don't think she would leave the lights on like this if she weren't." He cranes his neck, looking over his shoulder. "Hello? Anyone home?"

I follow him down the hall and into the kitchen; it smells wonderful, but also appears to be empty. "Chandler, what's going on?"

He looks just as perplexed as I feel. "I have no idea. Wait a second…" He heads over to the kitchen table, already covered with two place settings, which seems very odd. One of the plates has a note propped up on it, his name scrawled across the front. I watch him read it, his face turning pink after a few moments and he drops it on the table.

"What is it?"

"Um, my mother—" he pauses, clearing throat and looking wildly uncomfortable. "My mother thought we could use some time alone."

I blink at him, confused. "Time alone? What's that supposed to mean?"

He shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other. "Well, my mother—she's wonderful. I love her. And she means well. But she's pushy. Very, _very_ pushy. And we've had some problems—well, _I've_ had some problems—but I know that all she really wants is for me to be happy, and—and—and she knows that _you_ make me happy—"

"Chandler, breathe." I put a hand on his arm and he takes a deep breath in, staring at me wide-eyed. He looks really nervous. "I don't understand what you're saying."

"She really liked you when she met you—my mother, I mean—and she could tell that I care about you a lot, and it was her idea to ask you out here, and I didn't think about it being anything other than a nice gesture…" I give his arm a squeeze, trying to get him to slow down again; he's rambling and I think I'm missing something. "Monica, she set us up."

"Set us up for what?"

The tips of his ears turn bright red and he looks away from me, his teeth worrying his lower lip. "I think she gave us some privacy in case…you know, if we wanted to…Monica, I've never been this nervous around a woman before!"

I think I'm starting to understand what he's saying, and part of me is in complete shock that his _mother_ of all people would approve of this.

Another part of me is a little…intrigued.

"Chandler, what did the note say exactly?"

He takes a deep breath and picks it up again, clearing his throat before reading it. "'Darling, sorry to abandon you at Christmas, but I thought you might need some time with Monica—I'm sure she'll be able to take care of you. There's plenty of food if you two get hungry. Your old room is all made up for you and I've already arranged for you two to be picked up tomorrow morning. Have a good time! Love, Mother.' What kind of mother does that?"

I give him a weak shrug, my mind still reeling. "One that loves you?"

"But…but…I just can't believe she would approve of this."

"We're both adults," I say softly and he whips his head around to me, looking at me in surprise.

"What?"

I swallow heavily, feeling my heart start to beat a little faster. "Well, there's no law that says we can't be together without being married, right? You told me that you've been with women before—what's the difference now?"

"Well, I didn't care about those women, for starters!"

I cringe, looking away from him. "I…don't know if that makes me feel any better."

He sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. "I didn't mean it like that. I just mean that you're the only one I've been in love with. I want to do this right."

"What if this is right? This night—what if this is how it's supposed to be?"

He takes my face in his hands, rubbing my cheeks gently. "Are you sure? Don't you want to wait until we're married?"

I shake my head just a tiny bit. "I don't think we have to. Yes, we've talked about getting married one day, but that's probably some time off. We don't know what's coming," I remind him. "We have to make every second count."

He smiles at me gently, shaking his head just a little. "Monica, this is a big deal."

I put my left hand on top of his right, giving it a little squeeze. "I know it is, that's why I want it to happen with you. Not when I'm supposed to be ready, but when I'm actually ready, and I think that's now."

"Aren't you nervous?"

"A little, but only because I've never done it before. I've been talking to Phoebe about it—" He groans a little, interrupting me.

"Phoebe knows about _this_, too?"

"I needed someone to tell me about it," I answer defensively. "Who else was going to tell me? My grandmother? Ross? Not likely. So I asked her, and from what she's told me, it's a lot of fun."

He pauses for a moment, looking at me cautiously. "She told you that?"

I nod enthusiastically. "Yes. She said that sex is fun, then she gave me a bunch of books to read, and _those_ made it sound like fun, too. She showed me a flipbook of the whole thing and…it looked like fun." I wish I could think of a word other than "fun." "All she told me and everything I read said it was supposed to make you feel _good_, and how could something that makes you feel good be wrong?"

"I don't think it's wrong. I don't think there's anything wrong about it, but I certainly don't want you to do it because my mother has tricked us into being alone."

"Chandler…did you somehow miss me telling you that I've been thinking about this already? True; your mother may have planned this for us, but that doesn't mean I would go through with it if it wasn't something I wanted to do." I stand up on tiptoes, kissing him softly. "But if you don't want to, I understand."

He laughs a little, pressing his forehead against mine. "Oh, Monica; it's not that. It's definitely not that. But…you're special. I want it to be special for you."

"This feels special," I whisper, sliding my arms around his neck.

He immediately moves his arms around my waist, his eyes closing for a few moments. "Let's go slow."

"Okay."

"I'll show you my room first."

All I can do is nod as he steps away from me, taking my hand in his as he leads me back through the house to the front hall. I feel my stomach start to flutter as he leads me up the winding stairs; I'm doing this. I'm actually doing this. And I don't feel bad about it. I don't feel bad or guilty or that it's wrong. I'm nervous, but I'm excited. The books Phoebe let me read…wow. Not only did they make sex sound fun, but it sounds like it can be amazing.

I want to know what that feels like.

I want to know what it feels like with _him_.

We reach the top of the stairs and he gives my fingers a gentle tug, leading me down another hallway and stopping in front of a door that's been left ajar. He pulls me into his arms, resting his cheek on top of my head. "You are so important to me, Monica," he says quietly. "Remember; you don't have to do anything you're not ready for. I mean that. Whatever happens in there, if you want to stop, we stop."

I tighten my arms around his waist, closing my eyes. "Why would I want to stop?"

He takes a deep breath in and kisses my hair. "Just remember that, all right?"

I nod and he gives me a squeeze before taking my hand again, leading me into his childhood bedroom. It's mostly dark, the only light coming from the moon filtering in through the windows. I can't see all of the details, but what I can make out looks like Chandler. A couple of simple paintings grace the walls, and a faded Brooklyn Dodgers pennant hangs over his bed. Several unlit candles are on the bedside table, and the bed looks freshly made, the corner turned down.

His mother is not a subtle woman.

He stops us next to the bed, leaning down to kiss me softly. "There's still time to change your mind," he reminds me gently, but I just stare up at him. I don't plan on changing my mind.

He shrugs and gives me a crooked smile before turning to the nightstand. He feels around his pockets for a moment before he says, "Matches must be in my jacket." I sit down on the edge of his bed, the quilt soft beneath my fingers, but say nothing. He pulls open the table's drawer and slams it shut a moment later.

"What's wrong?"

He turns to look at me, taking a deep breath when he sees me already on the bed. "In case we weren't sure about my mother's intentions, she left an array of…_precautions_ for us to choose from."

"Precautions?"

"Prophylactics," he clarifies.

"Oh," I answer simply, my face heating up a little, and he cautiously opens the drawer again, pulling out a book of matches and lighting the candles. Slowly, he sits down next to me and takes my hand in his, slowly turning to face me, and I'm surprised to see just how nervous he looks. "Are you all right?" I ask quietly, shifting a little closer.

He chuckles a little, shaking his head. "Yes. But I told you, I've never been this nervous with a woman before. You're the one that counts, Monica, and I don't want to rush anything with you or ruin what we have. We've only been together for a few weeks."

"If we both hadn't been so stubborn, we probably would have been together for months by now," I remind him, and he slides his arms around my shoulders, pulling me into his side.

"I know. I wish that more than almost anything. I just…don't want you to do this because you're afraid of…"

"I'm not," I assure him. "I won't lie—I don't want to miss out on an experience with you, but I know that I want this. I don't know how I know, but I do. And we'll go slow. But Chandler…I don't know, maybe I'm crazy. Maybe I'm naïve, but this feels right." I scoot back on the bed a little, pulling myself up to my knees, and he angles his body to face me. "I love you so much; nothing is ever going to change that. I think that even if the world wasn't falling apart around us, I would still want this moment with you."

His arms slide around my waist and suddenly he's kissing me, kissing me more purposefully than he ever has before. I wrap my arms around him and hold him as tightly as I can. I feel him tilt backward a moment before I land on top of him. He lets out a little "oof" and I giggle a little against his lips. "Sorry," I mumble.

"My fault," he answers, shifting a little so we're side by side. He rests his head on the pillow, stroking my hair behind my ear. "I love you."

I smile happily, moving a little closer to him. "So, what do we do now?"

"I was thinking about kissing you for a while."

I nod a little, sliding my hand to the back of his neck. "All right." His lips find mine, kissing me slowly, his fingers slowly running through my hair; I shiver from head to toe. I feel his leg run up leg, hissing a little when his shoe drags back against my skin through my stocking.

He pulls away from me, wincing apologetically. "Sorry." He sits up, pulling off his own shoes before moving to mine. His fingers fumble with the buckles for a few moments—the shoes are impractical for this time of year, but I thought that dinner at a nice house called for my nicest clothes, even if I had to buy them secondhand—before tossing them on the floor next to his. He returns to his position beside me, running his foot up and down my leg again. "Better?"

I nod and shiver again, pulling him back to me. His lips meet mine again and I swallow heavily; we haven't had a chance to be alone like this at all, aside from stolen moments on the roof or one of the abandoned offices. I'm a little surprised at just how wonderful it feels. A little scary, but also wonderful. "Chandler," I breathe, and he gives me a gentle push. I turn onto my back and he follows, settling himself on top of me, his arms wrapping around me tightly, and I can hear Phoebe in my head, telling me to enjoy the way he feels.

He does feel nice.

He's so warm and comforting, but exciting, too.

It feels perfect.

His lips move from mine, travelling across my cheek and down to my neck. My breath comes out in a quiet gasp as I grab the back of his shirt, fisting it in both hands. I feel his teeth nip at my skin and I shudder, pulling out his shirttail. I run my fingers carefully over his lower back, marveling at how soft his skin is and he lifts his head, breathing heavily.

"Did I do something wrong?" I ask, trying to get my breathing under control.

"You're doing everything perfectly," he assures me, settling his weight on me more comfortably, my legs falling open to cradle him, and I let out a shaky breath at how natural it feels. "You still sure about this?"

"More sure than ever." And I really am; I know this—this feeling, whatever it is—is something I want to feel all the time. He waggles his eyebrows at me for a moment before kissing me again, and I swear I feel my toes curl. He drags his hand slowly down my side, his fingers digging into me, and my own nails press into his back just a little. I feel his hand move down my leg and grab at the edge of my dress before his fingers carefully make their way up my thigh and I pull my lips from his gasping.

He freezes, looking up at me in concern. "This okay?"

I nod a little, forcing myself to make eye contact with him. "It's okay. No one's ever touched me there before; I wasn't expecting it."

"I can stop," he offers, but I put my hand on his, keeping it in place.

"Please don't."

I feel his fingers move just a little, and I take my hand from his, wrapping it around him again, pulling the back of his shirt up so I can feel more of his skin. He toys with the edge of my stocking for a few moments, watching my face, and I suppose he likes what he sees. He sits up on his knees suddenly, both hands disappearing under the edge of my skirt for a few moments before I feel him rolling the stocking down my leg, tossing it over his shoulder. His hands disappear again, this time going to my other leg. He strokes my skin carefully, smiling down at me, and I can't help but smile back. He rolls that stocking down, too, and it disappears behind him. He grabs my foot and brings it to his lips, kissing the sole and my mouth drops open in shock. I never would have expected that, nor what I expected it to feel so…erotic.

I carefully pull my foot from his hands and grab his arms, pulling myself into a sitting position. I lick my lips and grab his tie, pulling at it a couple of times before it comes loose and I drop it beside us. I bite my lip for a moment and one of his hands goes to my cheek, stroking it softly, bringing his mouth to mine, kissing me for just a few seconds. My hands go to the front of his shirt and I fumble with the buttons, suddenly very eager to get it off of him.

A few buttons down and he puts his hands on mine; I realize I'm shaking. I look up at him unsteadily and he smiles at me gently. "You're nervous," he says quietly.

"Aren't you?"

He presses his forehead to mine. "A little."

"I don't want to stop, though."

He kisses me softly then holds a wrist in front of my face. "Help please." I study the cufflink for a few moments before I figure out how it works, removing first one, then the other, reaching behind me to drop them on the nightstand. He grabs the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head, leaving himself in his undershirt. There's not much difference, but my heart starts to beat faster anyway. He holds out his arms for me and I fall into him again. His lips go to my neck and I crawl onto his lap. His arms wrap around my waist and he slowly guides me back down to the bed. He looks up at me, pushing my hair away from my face. "Monica…"

I run a finger down the side of his face and lean up to kiss the tip of his nose. "Chandler." I shift a little, grabbing the side of my dress, pulling at the snaps. A moment later he puts his hand on mine, stopping me.

"I'll do that…if that's all right."

I nod and move my hand, my breath catching in my throat as the dress falls open quickly. He bends over and kisses my side through my slip, pulling back from me again. "Something wrong?"

He gives the hem of my dress a little tug. "I might need a little help with this."

My heartbeat triples—this is really happening. I grab at my dress, pulling it up until it bunches at my waist. Chandler takes over, pulling it up and I shift around a bit, lifting my arms so he can pull the garment off completely. He gives it a little shake and rolls off the bed, draping my dress over the back of his desk chair. He turns back to me and I sit up, crossing my arms self-consciously over my chest for a moment before I realize he sees me in much less than my slip when I'm at work.

This feels different, though. That's work, and this is so very real. I take a deep breath and stand up, making my way to him, my fingers slowly going to his belt buckle. I feel him watching me and I take a few more deep breaths, pulling the belt open, pausing at the clasp of his pants, and I feel a wave of nerves hit me, my hands shaking.

"Monica," he says softly, gently grabbing my wrists and pulling my hands to his chest. "This is as far as this has to go. I don't want you to do something you're not ready for."

I press my ear against his heart—it's pounding as hard as mine, and somehow that makes me feel infinitely better. This_ is_ a big step, but we're taking it together.

Yes, I'm nervous, but I really am excited, too. I'm curious and eager and a million other things, but most of all, I'm in love. I'm in love and parts of me I didn't know existed are crying out for him, eager for his touch. I take a few deep breaths and remember that flipbook of Phoebe's, and the _extensive_ information her books provided, and take a step closer to Chandler. I feel something pressing against my stomach and sigh—I read about _that_, too. I know it means he's aroused, and I know it's because of me.

That's a lot of power to have over one person, I think.

I pull my hands from his and go back to the button of his pants, pulling it open. I only hesitate for a moment at the zipper, shifting my head a little to look down at what I'm doing. He rests his hands gently on my upper arms but says nothing, waiting for my next move. Slowly, I pull the zipper down, trying not to touch him too much, which seems a little ridiculous given what we're about to do.

I feel his entire body shiver anyway, even with the lightest contact. "Oh, my God," he whispers, his fingers tightening a little on my arms. I give the waistband of his trousers a little push and they drop to the ground. I take a step back and look at him, feeling warmth radiate out from the pit of my stomach. His eyes move over me as well, and for the first time all evening I feel…beautiful. I don't feel nervous, I feel desired.

He steps out of his pants, kicking them off to the side. He reaches for me but I step away, grabbing them off the floor and draping them on top of my dress. When I turn around, he's sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling off his socks and their garters, and I can't help but giggle just a little at his frenzied pace. He smiles at me a little sheepishly and I stand in between his legs, draping my arms across his shoulders. He pulls me a little closer, bending a bit so his head is resting against my stomach, which feels more intimate than anything else to this point, but I don't know why. His arms tighten around me and I stroke his hair, waiting. He's done this before, more than several times, if I'm reading between the lines correctly, and it's a little difficult to believe that this could be affecting him this deeply. I feel his lips press against my stomach through the fabric of my slip and he looks up at me. I take his face in my hands, looking down at him in wonder—maybe I'm off my rocker, but his eyes look a little shiny, as if he's near tears.

"I love you, Monica," he whispers, and it nearly does me in. I press my lips to his, kissing him frantically, my heart hammering against my chest. I climb onto his lap, tugging my slip up around my hips to get it out of my way, my thighs straddling his. I make an odd noise somewhere in the back of my throat at the feel of his arousal pressing against me. He grabs my hips and pulls me closer, and I gasp—it feels good.

It feels _really_ good.

"You okay?" he breathes against my lips and I just nod, unable to find my voice. I wrap my arms around him a little tighter, my thighs grabbing at him a little harder, and he moans into my mouth. He tears his lips away from me, kissing his way down my neck to my chest; my eyes shut and my head falls back, my mouth dropping open as I whimper.

One of his hands slides up me, cupping my breast as his lips trace the top of it, and everything inside of me feels as if it's on fire. I don't know what else to do so I press myself closer to him, desperate for more of this feeling. He shifts to the other side, gently nibbling at my flesh, his hand grasping me a bit more firmly. His thumb carefully swipes across my nipple and my eyes fly open. I stare at him for a few seconds and he pants, waiting for my next move. I grab the bottom my slip and rip it off, throwing it to the floor. I feel my nervousness return for a moment as I realize I'm in nothing but my undergarments, but that goes away quickly. That's all he's wearing, too.

I grab the bottom of his undershirt and pull; he tugs at it with me and in moments it joins the pile of clothing on the floor. I take a few seconds to touch him, running my fingers over his chest, watching in fascination as the muscles jump beneath my fingers. I bend down and kiss his neck, and he groans, his hand going to the back of my head. His skin is salty and sweet and utterly addictive. I move to the other side and feel him falling slowly against the bed, pulling me with him.

I kiss down his chest a little, daring to bite at him just a bit. I feel him jump and laugh softly, his fingers threading through my hair. His other hand goes to my shoulder, pushing away the strap of my brassiere. I swallow heavily but don't stop him. I feel his lips on my shoulder and I can't help but wonder at how we're contorting ourselves, getting closer than I ever thought possible.

He comes up for air, switching sides, pushing away that strap, too, and I know what's coming, my breathing a bit faster now. He takes my face in his hands, pulling our lips together once more, and the dizzy feeling I get when we kiss comes back to me full-force. My head swims as I'm lost in sensations; his rough fingers sliding across my back and stomach, his body so firm but yielding beneath mine, his lips like magic, taking charge when they need to but so willing to give me control.

I feel the brassiere give and realize he's managed to unhook it. No one's ever seen me like this before. Even when I change at the Lounge, I'm very modest and do my best to keep myself covered.

I think this is the part that makes me truly nervous, simply because I've never done it before.

He slowly pulls his lips from mine, opening his eyes, finding me. They're so dark, and so full of so many things that I can't identify, but more than anything else is love. He's still looking at me the way he's been looking at me for almost as long as I've known him, and I think I could kick myself for not seeing it sooner.

He pulls the straps slowly down my arms and I shiver as the cool air of the room hits my overheated flesh. I shift up a little, freeing my hands to let the garment slide away completely and he draws in a deep breath, looking at me in wonder. I see his throat move as he swallows. One of his hands shakily coming up to touch me, and he hesitates.

"May I?" he asks softly, and I feel like I'm going to explode. He's asking for permission. This wonderful man who has more experience than I can imagine, who, from the sound of it, has never had any trouble getting a girl, is asking to touch me. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to feel his hands on me, and maybe even his lips. I nod and sit up, feeling very bold. His mouth drops open as he looks at me, and I feel his hands on my stomach. They slide up slowly, his fingers tickling my ribcage before I feel his fingertips on the underside of my breasts. I gasp a little, shuddering at the contact, and nod at him again. His hands slide up, covering me completely and my head falls back inadvertently, my mouth dropping open at the sensation.

Phoebe was right when she said this is fun. It's unlike anything else I've ever felt, but it's definitely fun.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, his voice full of awe, and I feel my stomach tighten pleasantly. His hips push up against me and I let out a little moan at the contact.

"Wow," I say softly, my thighs starting to shake a little, and he sits up suddenly, taking one breast in his mouth. I let out a shocked noise but immediately put my hand to the back of his head, keeping him in place. His tongue moves over my nipple and I tremble from head to toe. I push myself against him and I can hear him laugh softly against my skin. He sucks at me a few times and moves to the other side. My head drops into the crook of his neck and I whimper again—who knew that just this would feel so good?

His arms wrap around me and I feel him shift beneath me, moving us around until he's gently lowering me to the bed. His weight rests on top of me again, somehow comforting despite my body's reaction to it. I wrap my legs around his, holding him close, and he suckles at me, moaning into my flesh. I dig my fingers into his back as my body tightens, his skin already covered in a fine layer of sweat. His fingers move to the edge of my underpants and my entire body tingles with anticipation.

He releases my breast from his mouth, kissing back up to my neck, and I can feel him smiling.

"What?" I ask, surprised at how low my voice has become.

"You're amazing," he tells me simply, his eyes meeting mine. "You're sexy and gorgeous and, for whatever reason, you trust me."

"Of course, I trust you. I love you," I answer, running my hand through his damp hair. "You'd never hurt me."

"Never," he assures me. "You're still sure you want to do this?" I nod and he leans up to kiss me, pulling away after just a few moments. "Monica, have you ever had an orgasm?" My eyes grow wide and my face feels even hotter, so I look away.

"Uhhmm…"

"What is it?" he asks tenderly, putting his free hand on my cheek, turning me to face him again. "Why are you blushing?"

I sigh and look at him tentatively. "Phoebe told me about that, too. In fact, one of her books has a big section about nothing but orgasms—what they are, how to do it…even…how to do it yourself…" I look away again, feeling embarrassed, but he just kisses my neck again.

"Don't be ashamed," he tells me softly. "I've done it. Most people have probably done it. I've never gotten hairy palms or gone blind because of it, either, and if the last few months fantasizing about you didn't do it, nothing will."

I whip my head back to him, my eyes growing wide at his confession and I can't help but giggle just a little. "Oh," is all I can say as I bite my lip.

"I've thought about you a lot," he breathes into my ear, his teeth grazing the lobe, and I shiver. "About how you would feel, and your soft skin…" He's thought about me. During his most intimate moments, it's my face he sees.

Well, probably not just my face.

"So, have you done it?" he asks. I pause for a moment before nodding slowly.

"I wanted to know what it felt like," I confess. "I knew that when we got to this part, I didn't want to be completely surprised."

"How was it?" His eyes grow darker as he studies me, and my heart starts to beat faster, if that's even possible.

I swallow before answering. "It was nice."

"Just 'nice'? Let's see if we can do better than that, shall we?" His fingers slide beneath the edge of my underpants, giving them a little tug. He looks at me questioningly and I just nod. He shifts off of me, both hands sliding my last piece of clothing down my legs. Before I can feel at all self-conscious, he groans, licking his lips as he takes me in. He surprises me by lying down next to me, one arm sliding around my shoulders as the other rests on my stomach, stroking my skin softly. I can feel him pressing against my hip—it feels like he's twitching and my breathing starts to come a little faster.

"I want you so much," he whispers, his lips wrapping around my breast again, and my back arches off the bed as I press against him. His hand slides down to my hip, grasping me tightly, and I know that I need him. I actually ache for him.

It's intense.

He drags his lips up to my neck as his fingers move across my leg, his touch just a whisper against my inner thigh before he moves he moves up just an inch or two. His fingers come into contact with my sensitive flesh, a part of me I've only just realized can make feel so many wonderful things, and I yelp. My hips fly off the bed and he pulls his hand away, staring at me in shock.

"Are you all right?" he asks in concern and I try to get my breathing under control. A moment later, I grab at his arm, pulling him back.

"Don't stop." Yes; it was a bit of a shock feeling him there, and it was more powerful than anything I've made myself feel, but it was also wonderful.

"Are you sure?" His hand rests low on my stomach, so close. I nod and shift a little and his fingers slide back down me. I shudder and dig my fingers into his arm, turning my head and burying my face in his shoulder.

His hand moves slowly, first in small circles, but then a bit more, covering more territory. My foot slides up, bending at the knee, falling open to give him more access. "Ohhh," I say softly as he touches me, my entire body jerking. "So…oh, my God."

I feel one of his fingers carefully slide into me and I tense for just a moment before I force myself to relax. This is Chandler; he's not going to hurt me. If what's happened so far is any indication, he's going to make me feel better than I ever thought possible.

I lift my head from his shoulder, looking up at him, breathing heavily, and he groans. "Jesus, Monica." His hand moves against me just a little faster and my head drops back against the pillow. I watch his face, completely fascinated, my fingers flexing against his arm in time with his movements. His head drops to mine, his lips meeting mine eagerly. My mouth falls open occasionally as I gasp for air, his lips following mine. I free part of my arm that's been trapped between us, bending it to grab his elbow. His hand speeds up and my eyes fly open. He's breathing heavily, his forehead pressed against mine again, his eyes studying me, and I feel my stomach flutter. The palm of his hand rubs against me and my eyes screw shut again as I moan lightly, my hips pushing up against him.

He groans and he moves his head; a moment later I feel his mouth at my breast again, his teeth scraping against the nipple, and my insides quiver.

He keeps the palm of his hand against me, but his fingers start to move faster, another one slowly, gently joining the first, and I bite my lip as a strange noise works its way out of my throat. I arch off the bed a little more and gasp loudly—his fingers fill me and I'm not entirely sure how to process it. It feels…it feels…

I swear he curls his fingers inside of me and I nearly bolt completely upright before I collapse back against the bed, my entire body going taut for a few moments before my hips start pushing against his hand.

"Oh, God," I whisper, and a noise almost like a sob comes out of me. I feel a tingling in the pit of my stomach, one I've only felt a few times before, though not nearly as quickly as he's causing me to feel it.

His lips leave my breast and I feel a little disappointed; that was pretty...wow. "C'mon, honey," he says softly, his breath warm against my cheek. "Let go."

I open my eyes and see him propped up on his elbow next to me, watching me, his lower arm still around my neck, his fingers tightening against my shoulder. My eyes meet his as another shudder rushes through me, a quiet, "Ohhhhh," falling out of me.

"I've got you," he assures me, his hand moving faster, and I dig my fingers into his arm, keeping my eyes on his. "I've got you," he repeats in a whisper, and I feel something inside of me break into a million pieces. My pelvis lifts off the bed as his hand moves, my thighs trapping his hand within me as my hips start to move out of control. I press my head into the pillow behind me, my mouth dropping open as my breath catches in my chest. He moves his hand frantically and my head feels like it's going to explode. Stars burst behind my eyes as amazing feelings rush over me, millions of them at one time.

"Ahhhhhh." My voice sounds choked, in pain even though I'm anything but. I feel incredible and all I want is more of this.

"So beautiful," he says quietly, and I moan again, my body curling toward his, thrusting against his ministrations until I feel as if I'm going to lose consciousness, but this feeling is so unbelievable that I wouldn't care.

And just as suddenly, my body goes limp. I pant heavily, unable to open my eyes, unable to even move save for the involuntary motions of my hips. His hand still moves against me gently, though now it's more soothing. I shake all over for just a few seconds before coming to a complete stop, my eyes fluttering open.

"Oh," is all I can say.

"Better than 'nice'?" he asks, and I smile weakly, swallowing hard as I still try to draw in air.

"Much better," I answer in a voice I don't even recognize. He grins and leans down to kiss me. I respond automatically. He shifts his weight carefully on top of me, and I feel a little disappointed when I realize he's still wearing his underpants, even though I can feel _him_. I push at them a little weakly, still trying to regain use of my limbs and he chuckles softly against me. He pulls back a little, his hands rubbing my sides tenderly.

"You sure you're ready?"

I only nod, reaching out to him, dragging my fingertips down his chest. He shivers beneath me for a moment before reaching over to the nightstand, pulling out a prophylactic. He puts it down next to us and he starts pulling down his shorts, wiggling his hips a little to get them down, and I watch in fascination as he's finally revealed to me.

Oh, my.

That…is bigger than his fingers.

He drapes his body across mine again, trapping himself between us, and I feel like I'm coming back to myself a bit. He kicks his feet a little to completely free himself of his clothes, but the friction he creates in the process is unreal. I feel somewhere between overly-sensitized and desperate for more. He kisses me gently, our arms tangling around each other as we try to get closer, and I can't help but wonder why _anyone_ would want to wait for a feeling like this.

He pulls back slowly, gently rubbing his nose against mine, and I whisper, "I love you."

He smiles at me and gives me a quick kiss before kneeling between my legs; my hand automatically goes out to touch him, but I hesitate as I get close, searching his eyes. He rubs his fingers up and down my hip softly, nodding slightly.

"Go ahead."

I only hesitate for another moment before my fingers make contact with him, both of us gasping at the same time. His skin is so warm and silky, and he's so firm; I swear I can feel him pulsating beneath my touch. My hands travel up and down him a few times, fascinated by the feel of him, and his eyes shut tightly, his lips pursing as he moans. He puts one hand on my wrist, stilling my motions as the other grabs the protection from off the bed next to me. He holds it up between two fingers, finally opening his eyes to look at me questioningly.

I nod.

If that first orgasm was any indication, I'm in for something amazing.

He carefully opens the package and I notice that his hands are shaking.

Wow.

I did that to him.

I reach out and touch his hand, and he smiles at me lovingly. I watch as he rolls the contraception over himself and he leans over me once more, his hips in contact with mine and I swallow heavily.

"You can still tell me to stop," he whispers.

I don't want to.

"Don't stop," I answer, leaning up to kiss him.

He takes my hand and slides both in between our bodies, both of us grasping him.

"Ready?"

I nod, and I feel him again, just a bit. He rests his forehead against mine, his arms wrapping around my shoulders, and he pushes forward. I gasp at the sensation, feeling an immense amount of pressure for a few seconds before it passes, my body stretching to accommodate his, just like the books said it would.

This is real. This is really real.

My entire body shakes for a moment and he stays still, waiting.

I take a few deep breaths, clutching him tightly. This doesn't feel bad.

It feels…kind of good.

Different; foreign; but good.

He sinks down against me, our pelvises meeting and I gasp again. He shifts his hips back just a tiny bit before settling against me carefully, and I wrap my legs around his thighs.

He kisses my cheek and waits.

I finally realize my eyes are closed and open them. I turn my head to find him on the pillow next to me, his blue eyes staring back at me, waiting for a sign.

So I nod.


	18. Chapter 18

I can't believe this is happening; Monica's naked form is under mine. Her entire body is still shaking, recovering, though her arms are wrapped around me, her feet gently rubbing the backs of my legs as we kiss. It takes every ounce of control I have right now not to ravage her, but she's getting harder and harder to resist, the movement of me kicking my shorts off causing me to rub against her soft heat and making me nearly combust.

Though she is _amazing_ to watch. The amount of trust she just put in me…the amount of trust she continues to put in me…

She's so beautiful. So beautiful that I want to weep.

It probably makes me a heel, but what I just did to her…hasn't ever been a priority for me. I've been with more than my share of women by this point—more than I want to admit to, honestly—and it's always been pretty good, and I've always been fairly certain that those girls have had a good time. They've always sounded like it, at any rate. But I've never been with a first-timer before. And this is Monica. I love this woman more than I thought possible, and my only concern is making sure she has a good time. I'm going to want to do this with her again, but if she doesn't like it the first time, it may be a tough sell.

It sounds like Phoebe has been giving her a good report on the whole situation, though, and for that, I may have to kiss her. Monica mentioned some books that she read, and she seemed pretty eager about everything.

So far, so good.

Just touching her, running my fingers over her, watching her respond to my touch, hearing her moan as I brought her to the brink…there's no way to describe it.

Except making love. I've heard it called that before. I think that's what this is.

I pull back and rub my nose against hers, and she whispers, "I love you."

There are no sweeter words in this world.

There's a large part of me that doesn't want to rush things with Monica—she's too important. It's not as if I've ever taken the time with a girl before, not more than a few days at best. If she wasn't interested by that point, I had no trouble moving on. With Monica, it's been months. Months of getting to know each other and falling for each other and learning to trust and it's been amazing. Technically, that wouldn't make this a rush, but we've only been together a few weeks. When it's the girl you know you want to spend the rest of your life with, however long that may be, everything feels important.

But there's another part of me that doesn't want to miss out on a single experience with this woman. I feel as if we're cramming an entire relationship into, essentially, a matter of days. I suppose that's what we're doing, really. We _don't_ know how long I have until I'm shipped off, and the thought of missing even one experience with her makes me want to curl up into a little ball.

I keep asking if she wants me to stop, but she's been with me every step of the way. She's done research on it. If that doesn't mean this is something she wants, I don't know what does. All I can do is hope that she wants to keep doing this.

I'll stop if I have to. I think it would kill me, but if she's not ready, that's that. We're in this together.

I smile and give her a quick kiss, kneeling before her. Her hand reaches out for me, hesitating when she gets close, looking unsure. Her eyes meet mine tentatively and I put my hand on her hip, running my fingers across her soft skin. "Go ahead," I tell her gently, and her fingers slowly wrap around me.

I see stars for a few seconds. I have to close my eyes and force myself to maintain control. Not only has it been a long time since a girl has touched me, this is the first time it's been Monica.

It's unreal.

How could her delicate little fingers be more powerful than anything else I've ever felt?

I moan as both of her hands start to explore me, and the need to be inside of her is overpowering. I put one hand on her wrist carefully, sure she must be able to feel the tension in my hands, and grab the prophylactic off the bed next to her, holding it up between two fingers and lift my eyebrows at her, waiting.

She nods and I open the package, my hands starting to shake so badly I'm afraid I might tear the damn thing. I feel her hand on mine suddenly and I look up; she's smiling at me gently, so much love in her eyes, and it calms me almost instantly. I finishing rolling on the device and lay against her again, parts of my body pushing against her insistently.

I watch her swallow heavily and say, "You can still tell me to stop."

"Don't stop," she responds instantly, leaning up to kiss me.

I think I'm more nervous about this than she is.

I take her hand slowly and slide it between our bodies until both of our hands wrap around me. "Ready?" I ask, and when she nods, I guide us toward her entrance; even through the rubber I can feel heat coming off of her in waves, and I still can't believe this is really happening.

I press my head against her neck as I breathe deeply, wrapping my arms around her shoulders; her hands rest on my hips as she waits and I try to collect myself. I push my hips forward and slide into her, meeting no resistance aside from slightly tense muscles for a few moments. She gasps and her entire body starts to shake, her fingers digging into my sides and I wait.

I need these moments, anyway. This is intense. This is amazing.

It's perfect.

I hear her taking a few deep breaths in my ear and I pull my hips back just a fraction, shifting against her more fully. Her legs wrap around my thighs and I kiss her cheek, resting my head on the pillow next to hers, waiting.

I'll wait as long as I need to.

She opens her eyes and turns her head a little to see me, and she nods.

I shift my body over hers slowly, keeping my arms wrapped around her, and gently take her head in my hands. I lean down and kiss her softly, feeling her body relax a little more beneath mine, her hands sliding up my back to my shoulder blades.

Carefully, gently, I shift my hips back just a fraction and move back into her slowly.

Oh, wow.

I'm in trouble.

I do it again, the same movement, just as gently, and the sensation wasn't isolated; sex with Monica is really this powerful. She makes a tiny noise in the back of her throat and I stop moving, pulling back to look at her.

"Am I hurting you?"

Her eyes open slowly, blinking at me a few times, and I shudder from head to toe. Her lips are swollen from kissing me, her eyes dark blue in the light of the candles, and I don't know how I'm going to control myself.

I want her so much that I actually can't see straight.

"Don't stop," she repeats in a whisper, the tips of her fingers digging into my back just a little, and I move against her again, this time watching her face. She lets out a quiet sigh at the contact, and I can feel her heart thumping against her chest.

Or maybe it's mine.

I move slowly, taking care not to move too far out of her with each stroke; while I've never been with a virgin before, I've heard about it from other guys, and read about it some. From all accounts, it doesn't sound like it's usually the most pleasant of experiences for the girl, and I'll be damned if I do anything to make her regret this.

She makes another soft noise, her mouth falling open a little as I watch her, and I'm concerned for a moment but her body pushes up against mine in response.

It was a good noise.

My arms start to shake from the effort of holding myself up over her, of going so slowly. Sweat beads at the top of my head and slowly drip down my face, pooling against her skin.

"Chandler, I'm not going to break," she tells me softly, and I stare at her, startled enough to stop moving.

"What?"

"You're being so careful with me, and I love you for it, but I'm all right."

I stroke her hair away from her face. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't."

"I might."

Her hand slides up to the back of my neck, playing with my damp hair. "Love me the way you want to love me."

Oh, I want to so badly. "Are you sure?"

She nods, looking at me with nothing but trust. "I'll tell you if it's too much."

I bite my lip for a few seconds, mentally debating what to do, when I feel her insides flutter around me—she probably didn't mean to, but it's enough.

I start moving again, pulling out a little more before pushing back into her, a bit more forcefully now. I lower my head to her neck and suck at her soft skin, salty with her sweat. She gasps into my ear, her thighs tightening around my hips. I grunt a little into her skin and tighten my arms around her.

"Oh, God," I breathe.

"Uhhhh-uhhhh," she moans, and I look up at her, amazed. She pushes her head back against the pillow, arching her neck; she's breathing heavily but a smile is pulling at the corners of her mouth.

She's actually enjoying this.

I shift again, pushing into her a little faster, and she whimpers, licking her lips, and I can't help but stare at her in fascination. I move my hips against hers, trying to maintain this rhythm.

"This all right?" I ask as I watch her.

"Yeaaah," she drawls, and I work hard to make sure I don't rush it, even though hearing her make noises like that are enough to make me nearly lose control.

"You're so beautiful," I whisper, and her eyes flutter open again. She smiles at me, bringing her hand to my cheek, pulling my face to hers. Our lips meet even as we try to suck in as much air as possible, gasping around each other.

I slide one arm from under her, running my fingers down her side. I grab her thigh, pulling her leg up a little higher around my back.

She pulls her lips from mine. "Ohhhhhh," she says softly, her back arching off the bed. I grit my teeth at the increased contact, breathing in deeply through my nose, but I feel like I'm close to losing control anyway. I thrust into her a few more times before stopping completely.

She stares at me, confused, and I smile at her shakily. I bend my neck, gently suckling at her breast. I can hear her heart pounding beneath my ear as she pushes her chest up. Her fingers clutch at me, the muscles in her body tense beneath me. I move my hand to the small of her back and her hips move against me just a little.

"Oh, God," I groan against her soft flesh, breathing heavily.

"Did I do something wrong?" she whispers, and I lift my eyes to meet hers. Her face is flushed, but there's worry in her eyes.

"Not at all," I mumble, running my tongue over her nipple, watching her eyes grow wide. "You're perfect," I assure her, kissing my way slowly across her chest to her other breast. "Do it again."

Her eyes shut for a few moments, her mouth opening in a few quiet gasps, before she forces herself to look at me again. "Do what?"

I smile at her around her supple skin, dragging my teeth across her nipple. She hisses out her pleasure and I gently push at her back, encouraging her to move again. Her hips thrust gently against me and I bury my face against her, groaning loudly. She giggles a little and I lift one eye to her, looking at her suspiciously. She bites her lip, her eyes twinkling, and I shake my head just a little. "You're a little minx," I tell her. "And a fast learner."

"I have a good teacher," she says softly, her hands sliding to my shoulders, squeezing gently.

"Does this really feel good?" I ask, running my lips over her, feeling her entire body shake a little.

"It feels wonderful."

I don't think she's lying; she looks happy and more than a little aroused.

I want her so much; I've never wanted anything or anyone this badly.

I kiss her breast a few more times before I push myself up, putting my hands on either side of her ribs. She looks up at me, her eyes partly closed, her fingers sliding to my upper arms, squeezing gently. I start thrusting again, harder, but this time her hips lift up to meet mine. I watch her body move beneath me, hypnotically, her breasts bouncing in time with our hips connecting.

"Ohhhhhh," she says, louder this time, her legs unraveling from mine as she braces her feet against the bed.

"Do you have any idea how amazing you are?" I grunt in time with my thrusts. "Monica, I love you so much."

Her fingers dig into my arms as she lets out a few choked noises, her body arching toward mine once more. "Ahhh ahhh uhhhh."

The sounds she's making are amazing, and I feel my pride swell knowing that I'm bringing this out in her. I slow my thrusts, pulling most of the way out of her before pushing back in. Watching her like this is unreal, seeing her react to us together beautiful.

So beautiful.

Every little bit of her.

"More," she breathes.

I blink a few times, not sure if I could have heard her correctly. "What?"

"I need more. I don't know…I mean, I'm not sure exactly…I just know I need more."

"Anything you want," I answer. "Anything."

I thrust into her harder and watch that beautiful little smile spread across her lips again. "Yes," she whispers.

Keeping myself balanced on my left hand, I slide my right hand onto her damp skin, grabbing at her breast. I squeeze gently at first, then she puts her hand on mine, her fingers clenching around me, and I let out a groan as I move my hand a little faster, a little rougher. I lower my head to her chest, capturing her nipple between my lips, sucking hard, and she arches off the bed again. I feel her hands release me and I glance up, watching her grab onto the pillow over her head. "Chandler," she moans. "Oh, God, Chandler."

My hips speed up of their own volition, my thrusts becoming more and more frenzied. This is the most amazing experience of my life.

I drag my hand down her stomach, tracing a few circles around her naval, before continuing my journey. My fingers make contact with her sensitive flesh and she jerks against me, one of her hands slamming against my back, her nails digging into me. Instead of feeling pain at the contact, I just feel immense pleasure. I rub my fingers against her faster, watching her face as I suckle her breast, watching it contort and she almost looks like she's in pain for a few moments as her mouth opens but nothing comes out. Her head drops back against the pillow, ecstasy winning, and she looks happy even as she draws in short, ragged breaths.

She's so glorious, so fascinating, that I can forget about my own state for the time being. I could watch this all night.

I drop down to my elbow, curling my hand under her shoulder and switch my mouth to her other breast. Our lower bodies are pressed together tightly, my hand trapped between us, but I move my fingers as quickly as I can. I want to see her orgasm again.

She gasps, her hips moving against me erratically for a few moments before her legs wrap around me, her ankles crossing in between my thighs; she pulls me to her and I moan, my jaw going slack as I move faster. I breathe heavily into her chest, my fingers digging into her shoulder as I fight what is probably a losing battle for control over my own body.

She has control of it. I don't know if she knows it, but she is in complete control of me.

I pause for a moment, changing my rhythm, rolling my hips against hers. She lets out a choked noise, turning her face into her arm, and my lips chase after her nipple, latching on once more. Her hips match my movements after a few seconds, rolling in the opposite direction, and I feel the pit of my stomach tighten. I rub my fingers against her slower, but more firmly, and her body curls around mine, all of her limbs tightening against me, pulling me closer.

"Cha…Chan…" she gasps, her teeth grazing my shoulder, and I release her breast with a quiet _pop_, my mouth finding hers once more. My free arm wraps around her completely, holding her close. Her thighs tighten against my hips, holding me close enough that I can only thrust against her in short, quick strokes.

She moans against my lips and I can feel her legs shaking. I spread my legs a little and brace my feet against the footboard, thrusting into her hard, hoping that I'm not hurting her.

"Ohhhhhh." Her fingers dig into my shoulder blades and she pushes up harder and faster.

My heart starts to pound faster than it ever has as I feel all of my muscles starting to tense. Not yet; _please_ not yet.

I give up any pretense of finesse and rub my fingers against her furiously, my body pounding into hers clumsily as I feel my control slipping. I kiss her frantically, pulling her closer, thrusting.

"Monica," I gasp. "God, Monica." My head is spinning; my entire body is starting to shake. I force myself to stop moving for a few moments as I press my forehead against hers, gasping, our breath mingling. She makes quick, high-pitches noises as she breathes in, moaning a little as she exhales.

I brush my fingers over her again, very gently, and her eyes fly open.

I do it again and she says, "Uhhh, ohhhhhh."

I apply a little more pressure and her entire body goes rigid, her eyes staring into mine.

My fingers suddenly resume their quick, frenzied pace and her eyes slam shut. I thrust into her furiously again, pounding my hips against hers, and she buries her face in my neck, her legs unraveling from around me, her feet on the mattress as she pushes up against me frantically for a few seconds before her motions become erratic, her body tensing around, her loud, "Ahhhhhhhhhhh" muffled against my neck.

"Oh, God, yes," I grunt, pushing her into the mattress a few more times before my own body spins out of control, my eyes rolling back in my head as I move against her sloppily, waves and waves of pleasure washing over me, coming up from my toes and down from the top of my head.

I've definitely never felt anything like this before.

I gasp in deeply as I realize I've stopped breathing, this feeling taking up every place inside of me. I press my face into the side of her head as I move against her, riding it out, praying that this feels as good for her as it does for me.

I pull her a little tighter, thrusting a few more times. "Monica," I groan, gritting my teeth, and her fingers dig into me for a few more seconds before her body goes mostly slack.

"Oh, my God," she gasps, her chest heaving.

"Christ," I whisper, kissing her neck reverently. "That was amazing." She makes an odd noise and I pull back to look at her, trying to support myself on my shaking arms. "Are you all right? I didn't hurt you?"

Her hand comes up to my face, gently wiping the sweat away, and I see that her hands are shaking, too. "You didn't hurt me," she whispers. "Why would you think you would?"

"I've heard that…" I pause for a few moments, still trying to regulate my breathing. "I've heard that the first time can hurt for a girl."

"Oh. I never heard that. It wasn't in the books I read, and Phoebe definitely never mentioned it."

"Oh, that's right," I say teasingly, settling my body on top of hers again, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her throat, her skin still hot, her chest still heaving. "_Phoebe_ told you. Didn't she tell you sex is fun?"

Monica's face turns red but she grins anyway, her eyes lighting up. "She did."

"Was it?" I ask softly, leaning down to kiss her gently before she can answer. She moans quietly in the back of her throat, shifting beneath me just a bit, and I hiss at the sensation.

"It was a lot of fun," she answers just as softly, and I push her rumpled hair away from her face.

"Fun enough to want to do it again sometime?"

"Definitely," she says without hesitation, and I lean down to kiss her again. "Was I…I mean…how was…ummm…"

I rub my nose against her cheek slowly, a languid, boneless feeling settling over me. "Hmmm?"

"Was I…good? I mean, did you…"

"Oh, Monica, Monica, Monica," I whisper, pulling her close for a moment. "It was great. _You_ were great. That was the best sex I've ever had."

"Really?" She asks, sounding more than a little surprised. "I wasn't too—"

"Perfect?" I finish for her. "Amazing? Wonderful, beautiful, more exquisite than I ever could have dreamed?"

"I was going to say awkward or clumsy, but we can go with that."

I let out a laugh, burying my face in her neck, and she wraps her arms around me, laughing, too. I bring my lips back to hers, kissing her deeply, and she sighs, running her fingers through my short hair. "I love you, Monica," I tell her quietly, something so strong it's almost painful rolling through me.

"I love you, too, Chandler."

I shift, rolling off her, wincing at little at my sore muscles. I pull off the condom and look over the side of the bed, cringing when I realize there's nowhere to put it. Gingerly, I put it on the floor next to the nightstand and hope for the best, making a mental note to dispose of it at some point when I have the strength to stand. I turn back to Monica, lying on my side next to her. I reach out and gently rub her hip, and she takes in a quick breath. "Sore?" I ask, smiling at her gently, and she gives me a small shrug.

"A little. But the books I read said that was normal, no matter how experienced or inexperienced you happen to be. It doesn't feel bad," she assures me. "Just…sore."

I slide a little closer to her, kissing her again. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not. All the other things I feel right now…the sore muscles are worth it."

I lean forward and kiss her shoulder then start patting the bed beneath me. I prop myself up and see that we've somehow managed to push the quilt and sheet almost entirely off the bed. With a groan of effort, I sit up, leaning over her legs to grab the blankets. As I'm pulling them back, I pause to kiss her leg, making a quick trail from her knee up her thigh to the curve of her hip, finishing at her stomach before I situate myself next to her again, pulling the blankets over us. I hold out my arms and she shifts into them, wrapping herself around me. Her naked skin feels phenomenal against mine, and I hope like hell she'll be up for doing this again before we have to go back to reality.

"Hungry?" I ask, realizing we skipped Christmas dinner, but she shakes her head.

"Sleepy," she answers, burrowing her face into my neck.

"What else did those books tell you?"

She laughs softly, pressing her lips against the hollow of my throat. "I don't know. It's all starting to make a lot more sense, though."

"Well, like what?"

"Just…that there are a lot of different ways to have sex. It can be gentle, loving, easy, rough, hard, and that none of them are right or wrong. But I think we'll have to do it a few more times so I can know the difference."

I pull back a little and look down at her; she's peaking up at me, her eyes twinkling a bit, and I shake my head at her. "For the record, what we just did was a combination of things."

"Trying to confuse me my first time out?" I give her backside a tiny little pinch; she giggles and presses herself against me more completely.

"I think you might like sex, Miss Geller."

"I think you might be right," she answers. "One of the books also talked about different…_positions_?"

I nod reassuringly, trying not to seem too enthusiastic just yet. "Yeah, there are a lot of those."

"There were pictures."

I give her a squeeze. "Oh, really?"

"Some of them looked…interesting."

"Did they, now?"

"You think we might be able try them some time? I mean, if I told you what they were or showed you the pictures?"

I kiss her forehead lovingly. "Monica, your wish is my command. If there's something you want to do, all you have to do is ask. If there's something you _don't_ want to do, that's fine, too. It's important to me that this is good for you, and I'm open to just about anything you might want to try. As long as you want to do this with _me_, that's what I care about."

"Forever," she whispers.

God, I hope so. "Forever," I agree. "Get some sleep," I add softly, feeling my eyes growing heavier.

"All right," she mumbles, and I can feel her body growing slack. "I love you," she reminds me, and I can't help but smile.

"I love you, too." A few moments later, her breathing starts to even out, and I rub her back gently, feeling her relax against me further. I never imagined this happening tonight. I never suspected that my _mother_ of all people would encourage this, but she does genuinely like Monica, and I know she wants me to settle down at some point—a wife and kids and all that. I suppose she was trying to give me that push. And she doesn't even know that Monica and I are together. She probably suspects, but I haven't had a chance to talk to her about it.

My mother has great instincts when it comes to people and their feelings for each other.

I truly hope that I have the chance to have that life with Monica. I want to pledge my eternal love to her and I want to give her babies and I want to grow old with her.

If only I knew what the world has planned.

I haven't received my orders yet, but it can't be far off. I know a lot of people in California and other places out west have been sent off already; I've also heard that bunches from North Carolina and Virginia are shipping out, too.

It's getting closer and closer and I can't stop it. I can't run away from it.

My heart starts to race and I take a few deep breaths as I try to control myself, cold sweat breaking out across my forehead.

Why did I have to find the love of my life when it feels like the world is ending? Why can't we just live happily ever after?

I kiss the top of her head and she sighs, her body completely relaxed against mine. She's everything. She's more than everything. She's the only place I want to be. I know she'll wait for me to come home—I wouldn't ask her to, but I know she would anyway.

I just hope I can actually come home one day.

I shake my head, trying my damndest to push those thoughts as far away as I can for right now. I just want to think about Monica and what we just did and how completely perfect it felt. That stupid war isn't going anywhere; it'll still be knocking at the door when we wake up in the morning. For now, all I want is to fall asleep with her in my arms, her skin soft beneath my hands, her breathing deep and even against my neck.

It's something so small, and I don't think it's asking too much of the world. Not for just a few moments of bliss.

I close my eyes and breathe her in, the soft smell of her relaxing me. Her lips press against my neck in her sleep and I sigh in happiness.

I love this woman so much it's scary.

I let out another sigh and feel sleep capture me, whisking me off to a few hours of nothingness.


	19. Chapter 19

I watch Chandler in fascination; he looks so happy, so blissful, and it's amazing to see.

I close my eyes for a moment as a shudder works its way through me, but I force my eyes open again.

He looks up at me, and I can tell by the way the corners of his eyes crinkle that he's smiling at me before he goes back with gusto, his face between my thighs, my legs draped over his shoulders, one of his hands spread out across my stomach, the other doing wonderful things to me along with his mouth.

I never would have suspected I'd like this.

But then, a lot has happened in the last twelve hours, and not of a bit of it was anything I expected.

I lost my virginity, and it wasn't bad. I have no real basis of comparison, but it felt pretty good. Chandler was so sweet to me, so patient and loving, and I felt things I've never felt before, things I can't describe. For a few moments, I thought I broke into a million pieces, but I think he put me back together, my pieces mixing with his to make something better, something stronger.

And I got to fall asleep with him, which was maybe my favorite part. We curled up together and I fell asleep almost instantly. We woke up a few hours later, and he was so sweet and ran down to the kitchen because I was hungry. We sat in bed together, picking our plates clean, and even though I think he wanted to go again, he just pulled me against his body, his front pressed against my back, and we slept some more.

I don't think I've ever slept in a bed this comfortable before, and waking up in the early hours of the morning with his body warming mine is how I want to wake up forever. He kissed me so gently, every part of me he could reach, his body carefully covering mine again, and the feel of him was better than last night. I'm sure it's because this time I know what's in store.

Truly, I had no idea _what_ to expect from sex. I read a _lot_ of information in a very short time, and what wasn't in the books, Phoebe tried to fill in, but it all left my head swimming. I wound up being more nervous about taking my clothes off in front of him than anything else, but after spending a night with him, both of us naked, I don't know that I ever want to put my clothes on again.

But this part…I look down at Chandler again. His eyes are still closed and I can feel his tongue moving against me, his fingers stroking me gently, and my back arches off the bed. One of Phoebe's books had a chapter about…_this_. I could only read a few lines about it before I felt myself blush furiously and I skipped over the whole thing. Even the drawings describing the process seemed so lewd that I wasn't sure what to do with myself except feel shocked beyond belief and hope that the topic would never come up.

I'm not even completely sure what made Chandler decide to do it this morning. We'd been rolling around for some time, touching each other teasingly; he'd gotten a new condom and I felt the singularly unique sensation of him filling me, his body moving against me gently, our breathing growing labored, our movements gradually growing more forceful, when he leaned down to kiss me and asked if I trusted him.

Of course I told him I do. I trust him implicitly.

So he kissed his way down me—slowly, so slowly—covering every bit of me he could reach. He moved down to my stomach and I could feel him leave my body, and I felt oddly disappointed for a few moments. And still he kissed me. He kissed my hips and my thighs and my knees and back up to my thighs, until his mouth suddenly made contact with me. I bucked so hard I nearly threw him off the bed. But he still went slow, taking his time, waiting for me to adjust to it.

I don't know that I've adjusted yet, but I think I'm all right with that. I like that it feels unexpected but amazing.

My body tenses again, my toes curling into the quilt beneath us, and I bite my lip as I moan a little. I'm finding that I'm making a lot of odd noises during sex. He seems to like it, though.

I think he likes it a lot.

I grab a handful of blanket, clutching at it fiercely as I grit my teeth, my head coming off the pillow as he nips at me just a little. "Oh, my God," I whisper, and he glances up at me again, his eyes twinkling in the dark room. His hand slides up my stomach and grabs my breast, his fingers kneading the flesh, and I feel a shiver run down my spine, my mouth falling open as my head drops back down to the pillow. "Ohhhhhh."

He makes a noise—maybe he hums—and I can feel it echo through me. The fingers that are curled within me move faster, his mouth keeping pace. I grab his arm that's draped across my body and dig my nails into him. That just seems to egg him on, his mouth attacking me with greater purpose, and my back arches again, my body twisting sideways, my hips thrusting obscenely against his face. I gasp as I clutch at him, my thighs closing around his ears in an effort to keep him closer, my body anticipating what's coming.

Then his mouth is just gone and my eyes fly open. He's resting on his haunches between my legs, his fingers running over me gently; he looks ridiculously satisfied with himself, smiling down at me smugly. He frees the hand that's been squeezing my breast, trailing it back down my body, tracing patterns on my hip.

"Chandlerrrrr," I whine, and the look disappears from his face. His fingers move to my inner thigh.

"Yes, Love?"

"Why'd you stop?"

He smiles at me again, though gently this time, lovingly. "To do this."

I watch as he takes himself in his hand, and I feel my heart start to race. I swallow as I feel him at my entrance again; a moment later, he's pushing into me carefully, slowly, and my eyes roll back in my head at the sensation. He groans, and I can feel his body shake for a few moments, and I can understand why he felt so smug just a few moments ago. I really like knowing that I do this to him. He grabs my legs and pulls me closer, my thighs draped over his; I wait for him to lie across me, already eager for his warm weight, but he just starts to thrust slowly. He keeps his eyes on mine as he moves, and I feel my eyes growing wider. I can see what he's doing; I can watch it happen. I can see where our bodies are joining and becoming one.

"Oh, my God," I moan, pushing my body into his. He grabs onto my hips, pulling me toward him faster.

It's erotic and intense and maybe the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, though I don't know why. It's incredibly powerful, the image of him disappearing into me.

I moan again and grab onto his wrists, my stomaching tightening for a few seconds before I start thrusting against him again.

He slows down suddenly, moving against me languidly, and I stare at him in disbelief. I don't know what he's doing or why—it doesn't feel bad at all, I'm just surprised he's slowing down. I watch his head drop back, his mouth dropping open as he groans, "Oh, yeah." He tightens his fingers on my hips but undulates against me slowly, the space between us nonexistent as he somehow moves within me.

I feel like crying it's so good.

Somehow, this is already better than last night, and I thought last night was pretty amazing. I wonder if every time we have sex it will get better.

I hope so, though I don't know if I'll be able to handle it.

His eyes find mine again, his breathing heavy. I can see sweat glistening on his body and I'm overcome with the desire to lick it off him.

I shudder from head to toe, trying to push back the impulse.

I shouldn't do that, right?

But maybe he'd like it.

"I need you," I whisper, and I mean more than just in this moment. I reach out and grab his sides, holding him tight. I let out a high-pitched noise as I push against him. "God, I need you."

One of his hands leaves my hip, spreading across my stomach. His thumb slides down to my pelvis, rubbing me, and I actually sob for a second. Nothing in my life prepared me for these sorts of feelings.

"Monica, you're killing me," he moans, his arm shaking for a few moments as he closes his eyes tightly, breathing deeply. He stops moving and I wiggle against him impatiently, his thumb still in place. I put my hand over his and push down, trying to create some more glorious friction. My head falls back at the sensation and his eyes fly open, watching me in what I hope isn't disgust. "Holy shit," he whispers, and I take that as a good sign.

I clutch at his hand and feel his thumb start to move again, though his hips remain still. Mine don't; I push against him as hard as I can, my insides quivering. "Ahhhh!" I can't help myself; I grab onto his biceps and pull myself up so we're eye to eye. I moan again, feeling him shift within me as we stare at each other, our chests hitting each other as we gasp for air. I reach up and run my hand through his hair, hearing him gasp just a little as the short strands get caught in my fingers. I capture his lips with mine, kissing him gently before pulling away. He chases after me but I move down to his neck, taking a deep breath as his wonderful flavor hits my tongue; still salty, still sweet. I wrap my arms under his and press my lips against his chest, breathing shakily as I lick at his sweat.

It's more erotic than I could have imagined.

His fingers dig into my back as he moans, his other hand caught between us. I push my pelvis against him and he thrusts up a few times; I bite his chest and he gasps loudly. My head shoots up, my eyes wide. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry."

He just smiles at me, pushing my hair back from my face. "I'm not." He grabs the back of my head and pulls me to him, kissing me fiercely, his teeth nipping at my bottom lip and we thrust against each other. I grab his hair with both hands, my arms shaking as I try not to pull at him too hard.

I feel as if I'm losing control.

It feels amazing.

Everything I've ever thought about what I'm supposed to be, the things that girls should and should not do, how to behave, all go right out the window with Chandler. He's opened me up to a whole new world, and it's not just about sex.

I gasp for air, my back arching away from him, and I feel his lips on my breast, sucking at me roughly, and it feels wonderful. He's not being as cautious with me this morning, and it's amazing. He doesn't seem afraid to hurt me or that I'll break; he trusts me to let him know if it's all too much.

It hasn't been so far. So far, it's fantastic.

He carefully lowers me to the bed and I feel him pull out of me again. Before I can protest his face is between my thighs once more, his mouth attacking me ferociously, one hand pushing my knee down on the bed, the other grabbing my ankle. I thrust against him, no longer caring if it's lewd or improper or whatever. It feels good—it feels better than good, and I just want more of it.

He makes a happy noise and I open my eyes to watch him again; I don't know what it is about this that thrills him so, but I'm not complaining.

He moves his mouth off me, sucking at the skin of my pelvis, his fingers reaching down to stroke me. "Want to try being on top?" he asks softly, and for some reason, _that_ thought embarrasses me.

"I don't think I'm ready for that," I whisper, feeling my heart pound.

"That's okay," he assures me. "For what it's worth, _I_ think you're ready, but I can wait. You want more?" I nod enthusiastically, but instead of putting his mouth on me he surges forward, my right leg still draped over his shoulder. In one fluid motion he slides into me, thrusting into me slowly. He turns his head and kisses my knee, scraping his teeth against my skin. I stare at him wide-eyed; I didn't know I could bend this way.

I had no idea this would make things feel even more amazing.

He leans forward, wrapping his arm around my other leg, draping it over his elbow and all I can do is moan; I don't know if he has to do anything else right now to make this feel any better.

Then he starts to thrust frantically and I'm fairly certain I'm going to die.

Oh, but what a way to go.

He presses his lips to mine, kissing me obscenely, and I match his frenzied pace, desperate for an orgasm. This build up has been almost too much. I need a release.

I slide my hands down his back, grasping his backside, pulling him into me harder.

"Ohhhhhhh."

I don't know if that was him or me. Maybe it was both of us.

"Monica," he moans against my lips, I swear it sounds like he's sobbing, too. "Love you."

"Love you," I answer, my voice trailing off into another moan. I feel my stomach tightening again, the tension spreading to the rest of my body, and I recognize the feeling now; it's about to happen. "Oh, Chandler. Oh, yesyesyes," I breathe into his ear, and he grunts in return, thrusting faster, harder.

My entire body shakes. I turn my head, gasping for air, and watch my toes actually curl. He shifts his hips, lifting me off the bed with each stroke, somehow pushing up and I'm suddenly falling over the edge, violently, wonderfully, a noise I've never heard falling out of me, louder than anything else so far. I dig my nails into him and try to get closer, my body spasming frantically. He groans into my neck, his entire body rigid for a few seconds before he moves against me faster than ever. I feel his teeth bite low on my neck and I completely explode, my motions uncontrolled and uncoordinated. He's right there with me, his arms pulling me closer. We push against each other for a few long, beautiful moments before I go slack, my legs hanging limply over his arms. He keeps thrusting against me, sending tremors rippling through my body.

"Not ready to be done," he grunts into my ear, his body tense all over again. I reach up weakly and kiss his neck, wrapping an arm around him to stroke his back. Finally, he lets out a yell, the look on his face a cross between pain and happiness as he releases.

It's official—I like sex.

Maybe I'm not supposed to, at least not before I'm married, but it doesn't matter because this is great.

He collapses on me, his breath hot and heavy on my neck. He gently lowers my legs, my muscles protesting a little after being at such an unusual angle, but I slide my feet over the backs of legs anyway. He gives a little laugh, still breathless, and I tap the back of his head. "What's so funny?"

He laughs again, kissing my neck. "Nothing. No, this is just amazing. Everything about this has been amazing, and it's with you, and that makes it better than anything I ever possibly could have imagined. God, Monica, it's _you_. Do you know how extraordinary it is for you to trust me like this? To let me do this to you and that you _like_ it? You're so…I don't know. You're everything. You're the entire world. You're the moon and the stars and the trees and—"

I grab his face and pull him to me, cutting him off. "I love you, too," I whisper, kissing him again.

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Yes; I love you. That's what I'm trying to say." He gives me a kiss and rolls off of me, flopping on his back and letting out a loud, "Ahhhhhh." I giggle a little and turn over, nestling myself against him. I run my fingers lightly over the half-moon shape bruise that's forming on his chest.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I left a mark."

He lifts his head a little, looking down at where I'm touching, and shrugs, putting his hand over mine. "Just marking your territory."

I look up at him, shocked. "I was _not_. I just…I was…you…" I'm not sure if I'm flustered because he irritated me or because I'm embarrassed that he would think I'd do that.

He just runs his fingers down my neck, tickling my skin softly. "Looks like I did the same thing."

"What're you talking about?"

"You'll see. I think your work clothes will cover them, though."

I groan and drop my head back to his shoulder. "Ugh; I have to go to work tonight." He gives me a squeeze, kissing the top of my head. "Can't we just stay here all day and do this?"

"Lord, I wish. I suspect that my _mother_ would have no problem with it. Unfortunately, I have to get to the base."

"Oh, God, that's right. What time is? Oh, and do you have any idea what time we're being picked up this morning?"

"Yeah, six. When I went downstairs last night, I looked at my mother's note again. She had some information written on the back, and I guess she figured six would give us enough time to get back. As for what time it is..." I feel him looking over my head toward the alarm clock on the nightstand. "It's after five."

I groan again, feeling disappointed—I knew we'd have to go back to the real world, I just wish it didn't have to be so soon.

"I know," he tells me. He grabs my hand, kissing the palm, before he sits up, groaning and stretching. I prop myself up on my elbow, watching the way the muscles in his back move.

He's beautiful.

He stands up and laughs, sitting down again almost instantly. "What's the matter?" I ask, reaching out to gently touch his back.

He shakes his head, looking at me over his shoulder. "Great sex equals weak knees. Be careful when you stand up." He pushes himself off the bed, taking a few shaky steps before he seems to get his feet underneath him, walking over to his desk chair. I stare at him, captivated. He's naked and completely unconcerned about it, as if he does this all the time.

Maybe he used to, or maybe he's just not at all shy about his form.

Not that he has any reason to be.

He pulls on his pants and I feel a tiny wave of sadness—this incredible night is really over.

I smile up at him as he comes back to me, my clothes neatly draped across his arm, and sit up, gasping a little at my sore muscle. "I'm all right," I assure him before he can ask, and I tug at the sheet, pulling it around my body. I shouldn't feel self-conscious about this, especially not after what we just did, but I can't help it. He just pushes the hair away from my face and wraps an arm around my back, helping me stand; my legs are extraordinarily shaky, wobbling beneath me. I rest my head against his chest and he holds me close.

"Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you for trusting me with this."

"I wouldn't trust anyone else." I look up at him, pushing myself up on my tiptoes to kiss him. A few moments later, he takes my hand, leading me down the hall, stopping at another door.

"Bathroom," he explains. "Take your time. I'll get everything else cleaned up."

I smile at him gratefully and he passes off my clothes before he disappears back toward his room, and I close the bathroom door behind me, leaving the light off for now, the fading moonlight reflecting off the snow enough for now.

I take care of the necessities, and find a washcloth that I use to clean the areas that got the most attention over the last few hours. I carefully pull on my clothes, wincing as my muscles protest or I find a new spot that got more attention than others. Almost reluctantly, I reach for the light switch, flicking it on. I blink rapidly in the suddenly bright light, my eyes adjusting, and I force myself to look in the mirror. The girl staring back at me looks the same, but somehow different. She looks tired, but so very happy. I move the neck of my dress out of the way, biting back a grin as I see the tiny dark bruises Chandler mentioned, all in the shape of his teeth.

I sigh and run my fingers through my hair, but it's a lost cause; my hat will have to do for now. I turn off the light and grab the sheet and used washcloth, walking back down the hall. He's just finishing up, straightening his clothes. He smiles as he takes the bedding from me, tossing it on the mattress unceremoniously. He gives a look around and shrugs. "I think we're set."

"Ummm." I look down at his nightstand, the drawer still open a crack. "What about _those_?"

He looks more than pleased. "You want me to take them?"

I give him a one-shouldered shrug, looking away. "We might need them."

He kisses my forehead and grabs the protection, stuffing them in his pants pocket. He reaches for my hand and we head downstairs.

"You know, if your brother sees me with these, he'll kill me."

I squeeze his fingers a little. "If my grandmother sees them, she'll do worse than kill me."

He's only met her a couple of times—Ross brought him to the apartment—but he agrees nonetheless.

As we wait for the sleigh, we're mostly quiet, standing with our arms wrapped around each other. The train ride back to the city is the same as I go in and out of sleep, my head against his chest, lulled by the car's rocking.

It doesn't matter—I don't feel like we need a lot of words right now. It's nice just to be.

We walk from the train station hand-in-hand, and he occasionally tugs at me, pulling me in for a kiss. About a block from my grandmother's, I stop him, keeping him from making that final turn down my street.

"What's wrong?"

"I should probably finish this alone. She's most likely asleep, but I don't want Grandma to see us walking down the street together this early in the morning."

He nods, even though he looks a little disappointed. "You're probably right." His arms slide around my waist, and I lift myself up to my tiptoes, my arms going around his shoulders. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

He kisses me softly, reverently, and my insides start to shake all over again. "I'll be at the Lounge tonight," he promises, and I nod, feeling inexplicably sad that we have to part for even just a few hours.

"I'll be waiting," I whisper, closing my eyes as they fill with tears. I press my lips to his and he pulls me closer, kissing me deeply. I sink back to the ground, my hands sliding down his chest, and I take a deep breath of him.

"Tonight," he says softly, though it sounds like he's reassuring himself as much as me. He takes my face in his hands and kisses me again, my heart breaking with happiness. "Get some sleep."

"I don't think that'll be a problem," I answer, giving him a tight hug before stepping away slowly. He holds onto my hand, and I feel ridiculous for being this emotional—I'll see him in a few hours. But everything is different now. Wonderful, but different, and I feel more like he's a part of me than ever, and the thought of being without him even for a short period of time hurts.

I can't even let myself think about him being away for me for months or even years.

Our fingers clutch at each other one more time and I smile at him before letting go, turning out of the alley and walking down my street. I wipe away the tears that trickle down my cheeks, feeling bereft; I already miss him. I miss his arms around me, his body pressed against mine, the way he makes me feel, all of it.

I take a few shaky breaths and head upstairs, pulling my keys out of my pocket and quietly turning the lock when I reach my front door. I close the door and press my forehead against the cool wood for a few moments before I sigh and pull off my coat and hat, hanging it on the rack.

"Where have you been?"

I jump and turn around, startled to see my grandmother sitting at the kitchen table, staring at me. "Good morning, Grandma," I say, ignoring her question.

"Where have you been?"

"I went out."

"All night?"

I feel my heart start to pound, my palms growing sweaty. "I went with Chandler to his mother's for Christmas. I told you that."

"We don't celebrate Christmas," she tells me, standing.

I roll my eyes, instantly regretting it. "But _he_ does, Grandma. He wanted me to come spend the holiday with his family. I didn't realize that was a crime."

"Don't you sass me, young lady. I will _not_ have you off gallivanting with this…this…_man_. What was so pressing that you were gone all night?"

I feel my temper start to boil, and I push it down as best I can. "It was late; we didn't have any way to get back to the train station. His mother offered to let us stay the night." Technically, none of that is a lie. It's just not the whole truth.

"I'll just bet." She advances on me suddenly and I back up against the door, swallowing hard. She stares me in the eye for a full minute; I don't know what she's searching for, but I don't think she likes what she finds. "You've been tainted."

"I'm not _tainted_, Grandma," I say, suddenly feeling exhausted; the last thing I want to do is fight with her. I slide away from the door, angling myself around her. "I'm going to bed."

She grabs my arm, yanking me around. "Don't lie to me!"

"I'm not lying! I'm not 'tainted.'"

"You're not to see that man anymore, do you understand me?"

"Or what, Grandma?"

She couldn't look more shocked if the seven plagues descended on her at one time. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're going to forbid me from seeing Chandler? How, exactly? I'm eighteen; I can do what I want."

"Not under my roof, you can't."

I clench my teeth, my entire body tensing, but I still try to keep myself in check. "Nothing has happened under your roof, Grandma."

"I don't want you seeing him, not if he's going to turn you into a fallen woman."

"I'm not fallen! I'm not tainted, I'm not anything. I'm just your granddaughter. Your granddaughter who pays to live here, might I remind you. I work like a dog just to help make ends meet and you still treat me like you're doing me a favor. I pay for half of everything. _Everything_. This is my house, too, and you can't tell me what I can or can't do."

I see it a split second before it happens; her hand comes flying at me, hitting my cheek with a loud crack. My eyes immediately tear up and my hand cups my face, already burning where she slapped me, and I see red, my temper flaring like it never has before.

"Do you want to know what I was doing last night?" I ask in a low voice, keeping my face turned from her, unable to look her in the eye. "Do you?"

"Go to your room," she tells me, her voice shaking, though I'm not sure if it's with anger or regret.

"Do you want to hear what he did to me? Or what I did to him?"

"Monica, I swear…"

"What? What do you swear? I thought I was a fallen woman. Don't you want me to prove it?"

She grabs my arm and pushes me through the door of my bedroom. "Out. I want you out. I raised you better than this. How _dare_ you treat me like this under my own roof? After all I've done for you? I took you in when no one else wanted you."

"_You_ didn't even want me!" I exclaim, tears rushing to my eyes as I rub my arm.

"Because I knew what sort of disgusting girl you'd turn out to be."

I open my mouth to respond, but in a heartbeat all the fight drains out of me, and I inexplicably feel regret at the things I said, things I was going to say. I can't live like this. I shouldn't have to live like this. "Fine."

She blinks at me, startled. "What? 'Fine' what?"

"I mean, fine, I'll leave."

"Where are you going to go?"

I laugh mirthlessly, shaking my head as I reach under my bed, pulling out my old, battered suitcase and a carpet bag that's seen better days. "Does it matter?" I ask sadly. "You don't care."

Her mouth opens and closes several times as I go to the tiny closet, pulling out the few dresses, blouses, and skirts I have to my name, my hands shaking as I fold them up and put them in the suitcase. I turn to my tiny bureau and empty out the rest of my clothes, reaching into the back of the drawer to find what little money I've managed to save and I hide in my undergarments, and shove it into wherever it'll fit. "You can't leave," she says weakly.

"You don't want me to stay."

"But…I need you here."

I feel a tear roll down my cheek as I go back to the closet, pulling out the couple of pairs of shoes that I own. I sit down on the edge of the bed, trying not to flinch at my sore muscles, and pull off the fancy shoes I wore last night, exchanging them for the ugly, clunky ones that will let me trudge through the snow and slush. "No; you need my paycheck here. You don't really care if I'm actually here or not." I grab my books off the top of the bureau and shove those into the carpet bag, hoping the handles will hold out for a while. Very carefully, I pull out my worn out old jewelry box—that contains little more than a few old pictures of my parents, a few pieces of costume jewelry, and a gold chain that belonged to my mother—and place it gently in my suitcase, nestling it amongst my clothes.

I grab my bags and push past her, going toward our tiny wash area and grabbing the personal products I can call mine. "You…you better not take anything that doesn't belong to you."

"I won't," I answer quietly as I wipe off my cheek, flinching when I realize I can still feel where she hit me. I take a quick look around the apartment, sad but not terribly surprised to realize that almost nothing here belongs to me. This was never really my home; it was just a place to exist.

I grab my coat off the rack, pulling my hat back on over my messy hair. Impulsively, I grab my grandmother, pulling her into a hug; I doubt this will be the last time I see her, but this feels final nonetheless. "Bye, Grandma. I love you." I do; despite everything, even what happened in just a short amount of time, I love her. I don't have much family left, and it feels like I'm losing a piece of it. I don't look at her as I walk back out the door, pulling it quietly shut behind me.

I trudge down the stairs and out onto the street, pausing. Where am I supposed to go? I acted completely on impulse, and I may have bitten off more than I can chew.

My heart starts to pound again but I head off in the direction of the Lounge. Too much has happened in too short of a time, more than my mind can handle right now. Tears prickle the edge of my eyes but I bite the inside of my cheek. I refuse to breakdown in the middle of the street.

I get to just outside the Lounge and pause, readjusting my luggage, still unsure of what to do, when it hits me—Phoebe! She'll let me stay with her for a little while I'm sure, at least until I can figure out what I'm going to do.

With renewed purpose, I put my head down against the snow that suddenly falling quickly and walk as fast as I can to her apartment.

I don't think she'd turn me away, not right now.

Fortunately, she lives fairly close to the Lounge, so I get there before I get too cold or too wet. I drag my belongings up five flights of stairs, breathing heavily by the time I reach her door. I knock, and it occurs to me that she's probably still sleeping. It's not even eight yet, and she tends to stay up until sunrise.

A few moments later the door opens a crack, Phoebe's eye peaking out at me. "Monica!" she exclaims, surprised, the door closing again and I hear the chain lock being disengaged. A moment later, she throws the door open completely, staring at me in shock. "What's wrong?"

Tears fill my eyes, and I can't fight them back now, no matter how hard I try. "I left home. Can I stay with you?" I don't even know if she understands the last few words because I'm suddenly sobbing, my bags dropping out of my hands, all of it hitting me at one time. Her arms wrap around me, and I cry onto her shoulder. "I'm sorry," I choke out in a whisper. "I'm so sorry…"

"No, no, no, don't worry about it. Of course you can stay here. Come in." She ushers me inside, grabbing my bags before bolting the door again. She sits me down on her bed and curls up next to me, holding out her arms again. I lean on her gratefully, my body suddenly shaking—from the cold, from nerves, from all of it, I don't know—and feel myself sob harder.

She doesn't say anything, she doesn't ask any questions; she just lets me cry on her shoulder. In a little while, once I've calmed down, I'll tell her everything about the beautiful night I spent with Chandler up to my grandmother basically calling me a whore.

But for now…I weep.

* * *

><p>*AN...a lot happened in this one; I know. That's just the way it works sometimes. Happy New Year to all of you; thank you for being such a supportive, wonderful group of people, and thank you for helping to keep this amazing fandom active. You're the best!


	20. Chapter 20

I wait outside the backdoor of the Moonlight Lounge, tapping my foot anxiously against the wall. Ross gives me an odd look, flicking away his cigarette. "What's going on with you?"

I just shake my head; I'm eager to see my girlfriend, though it's hard to explain that to her brother. I saw her less than ten minutes ago as she was finishing up inside, but ever since we became intimate, being away from her for even short periods of time can be agony. Knowing that she's really only a few feet away inside the building just seems to make it worse.

The last few weeks have been…odd. And interesting. Literally moments after Monica and I parted ways the day after Christmas, she had a huge fight with her grandmother, who caught Monica coming in after spending the night with me. There was yelling, the old woman actually hit her, and Monica decided she'd had enough and left. Fortunately, Phoebe took her in, and I think the two of them are working out. The apartment is small—there's hardly enough room for one person, so with the two of them it's really cramped, but Monica says she's paying less now than before, and she seems much more at ease, so that's something. Neither of them actually have their own bedroom, but they've managed to fashion a partition out of old curtains and bits of furniture, giving them both a little privacy.

But Monica was so distraught when she told me after work that night she could barely get the words out, and I immediately felt guilty for being the cause of the fight. She assured me that she regretted nothing—not one moment of our time together—and even though how it all happened was painful, moving out from under her grandmother's thumb was ultimately for the best.

Regardless, the first thing I did was go out and buy her linens and a warm blanket; she left her grandmother's apartment with almost nothing to her name, and certainly nothing that came close to furnishing a home. When I told my mother I needed the money for Monica, she was only too happy to wire it to me.

It's encouraging that my mother likes the woman I want to spend my life with, and I'm sure it wasn't too difficult for her to figure out what happened on Christmas night, especially since it was all her doing.

So Ross and I helped her get settled in at Phoebe's. He kept trying to encourage his sister to talk to their grandmother and clear everything up, but she was adamant. Personally, I think Monica might be just about the bravest person I've ever met—it takes a lot of guts to do that, just up and leave your home, and I admire her courage.

As an added bonus…well, we have somewhere to be alone.

Her first few days there, nothing happened between us; she was still upset from the fight with her grandmother and she, rather bashfully, admitted that she was a little sore from our first night together. I didn't mind; I was truly happy just to be someone she could lean on, and in the process, the four of us have spent some time in that tiny apartment, talking late into the night.

After a few days, though…she must have asked Phoebe for some space because Phoebe and Ross carried on to the diner and Monica and I went back to her apartment, where she most definitely was the instigator.

Not much is more amazing than knowing my beautiful girlfriend wants me just as much as I want her.

Since then we've been…well…I believe the expression is "going at it like rabbits." Every chance we get, we're naked together in bed, and I hold her for as many hours as I can before I absolutely have to head out. Each time, it gets harder and harder to leave.

For as many girls as I've chased after and actually managed to be with, I've never had an honest-to-goodness relationship, and I'm finding it's better than just about anything else. I love every part of being with Monica; holding her hand, walking her home, buying her dinner, making love to her. Falling in love is the best thing to ever happen to me. This relationship we have…it's an intimacy I've never known. Everything means more with her, and sex is definitely better when you actually connect with someone.

She's a little spitfire, too; after our first few nights together, she _really_ got into it, asking questions, making requests, trying new things, always enthusiastically, and always with the most fantastic of results.

So, yes, I'm very eager to see my girlfriend. I just need to hold her. It's hell being near her all night but not being able to touch her, to watch other men leer at her, lust after her, though there's definitely a heady feeling of pride knowing that I'm the one that gets to take her home. _I_ get to do wonderful, unspeakable things to her and no one else. She's mine, not theirs, and if I have to spend a few hours pretending she's only my friend so she can do what she needs to do to get by, I'll live with it. Interestingly enough, it helps to know that sometimes, just out of sight under her work clothes, are the marks I've given her—little bites and tiny bruises. It's not as if I come out unscathed—she likes to drag her nails down my back, leaving long, red welts that earn me a lot of catcalls in the showers.

Ross wasn't too thrilled with that.

I shake my head and stand up a little; I can hear voices growing closer from inside the Lounge moments before the door flies open. I smile politely at the girls that I made moves on just a few months ago, most of whom have probably not thought much about me since one way or another. I perk up when I hear Monica's voice, her dark hair coming into view a few moments later, the smile that spreads over my face huge and genuine. She cranes her neck, smiling when she sees me, stepping around the girls in front of her to reach me. I take her face in my hands and kiss her slowly, everything in me feeling at ease now that I'm near her again.

I can feel her hum in the back of her throat, turning her head to kiss me deeper, and I swear my knees start to shake. Her arms wrap around my neck, my arms go around her waist, and we pull each other closer.

"Geez, Chandler, let her come up for air," I hear Ross say, mild disgust evident in his voice. Before I can pull away, Monica's hand is on my cheek, keeping our lips fused, and I laugh a little against her mouth, tightening my grip around her waist as I stand up straighter, pulling her a few inches off the ground.

"Yow! Do you two need some privacy?" Phoebe asks, though she sounds a bit more playful than Ross.

We do finally break apart a little, smiling at each other gently, and our friends start walking out of the alley.

"How are you?" I ask Monica, keeping her in my arms as I walk forward, making her giggle.

"Better now. You don't have to carry me, you know."

I readjust my grip on her, keeping her tight against me even though it makes walking awkward. "I know."

"Seriously?" Ross asks. "Do you two _have_ to be so…blech?"

Monica looks over her shoulder, making a face at her brother. "Yes," she answers simply. I pause for a moment, shifting my arms so I can grab under her knees, cradling her against my chest. She looks at me in surprise but I just shrug and keep walking. "What're you doing?"

"You've been on your feet all night—can't I take care of you a little?"

"Mmm, you can rub my feet later."

"Happily," I tell her, giving her a gentle peck.

"So, Chandler," Phoebe says. "How does it feel to know you're being completely controlled by a _girl_?"

"It's wonderful," I say softly, staring at Monica. She smiles at me before cocking her head, a concerned look passing over her face, her fingers coming up to trace my jaw.

"What's going on with you?" she asks quietly.

"What makes you think something's going on?"

"The look on your face. Is everything all right?"

Just another thing to add to the list—I love that she can look at me and know what I'm feeling.

"Everything's fine. But I was sort of hoping we could bypass coffee tonight, if that's all right with you."

"Yeah, of course. Hey, Pheebs?" I carefully set her on the ground, holding her arm to make sure she doesn't slip on an icy patch. "Do you mind if…"

"You two need a few hours?" she asks, finishing the thought, and we both nod.

"Ew! That's gross! Chandler—" Ross is silenced by Phoebe punching his arm.

"Leave them be," she tells him, and I smile at her gratefully. Phoebe leans over, first kissing Monica's cheek, then mine. "I'll see you two later."

Monica wraps her arms around her brother, resting her head on his chest for a few moments. "I'll see you tomorrow, Ross."

"Yeah, yeah."

I reach out, shaking Ross's hand. "I'll probably just see you in the morning."

"Uh-huh," he tells me, looking uncomfortable. "Just don't…do anything…I mean, don't do anything weird or—"

Phoebe grabs Ross's arm, yanking him away. "Knock it off!"

"What?" I hear him exclaim indignantly as we watch them walk down the street. "I don't like the idea of _anyone_ doing that stuff to my little sister!"

I shake my head as their voices start to fade, looking down at my girlfriend. I take her hand and start walking, but she comes to a stop right away. "Where are we going? My apartment is that way." She gestures over her shoulder with her thumb. I just step toward her, sighing overdramatically.

"I do think about other things, you know," I say, cupping her face and leaning down to kiss her.

"Since when?" she asks, but I can feel her smiling against my lips.

"You wound me, Monica. I thought I was something of a gentleman."

"Oh, you are," she tells me, stepping closer, sliding her arms under my coat. "Until my clothes come off," she says softly, her teeth gleaming almost predatorily in the night. My body reacts to her painfully, almost violently, and she takes a deep breath, pushing her hips gently against mine. "Let's go home," she breathes, standing on tiptoe, kissing me teasingly.

My brain is completely muddled, and my vision goes a little hazy as pure desire rushes through me. I have a hard time keeping it in check on a good day, but when she does this, when she suddenly becomes this playful, worldly woman who wants me more than anything else, all ability to think goes right out the window. I can't get enough of her; even when I'm with her, I can't wait to be with her again, and even if all we did was hold each other all night, I'd still be the happiest, luckiest man to ever live.

She gives me a gentle tug, keeping her eyes locked with mine and I take a few steps with her before I protest weakly. "But…I wanted to go to our roof."

She looks genuinely perplexed by my suggestion. "Why?"

"Because we haven't been there in a while, and I always liked spending time with you there."

"But that was back when we were only friends and that was just about the _only_ place we had to ourselves."

"I want us to be about more than having sex all the time," I whisper, putting my forehead against hers, my arms wrapping around her waist.

"We are," she assures me. "We're so much more than that. But the sex part is nice; _really_ nice. And I _need_ you, Chandler." She slides her arms out from under mine, bracing her hands on my forearms, using them to push herself up against me, her body pressing against mine, both of us drawing a breath at the contact. "I feel like if I don't have you soon, I'm going to explode," she whispers, and I groan, loudly, grabbing fistfuls of her dress, my entire body straining as I try _not_ to rip the garment off of her.

"Keep that up and it'll happen right here on the street," I growl, my voice lower than I thought it could go.

She whimpers and wraps her arms around my neck, kissing me hard, and for a few moments I completely forget myself and where we are, grabbing her leg and pulling it over mine, not caring about anything but her.

"Jesus, Monica," I finally gasp, dropping her leg and pulling away from her abruptly, bending at the waist a bit as I breathe deeply. "I think you're trying to kill me."

"I'm sorry." I look up at her; her eyes are wide and she's breathing heavily, shaking a little. "I didn't mean to—"

I reach for her immediately, pulling her into my arms. "Mon, Mon, Mon, it's okay. I just get worked up way too easily when it comes to you. Don't apologize for it."

"It's been a couple of days," she whispers. "And I kind of missed it."

I take her face in my hands, kissing her gently even though my body is screaming for her. "Don't apologize for that, either."

"Well, then, let's _not_ go spend time on a cold roof where the snow will only get to us faster, and go back to my slightly less cold apartment so you can…keep me warm."

I kiss the tip of her nose and look around, realizing for the first time snow is drifting down on us gently, swirling in the occasional gust of wind. I look down at Monica, her cheeks pink from the cold, snow sticking to the tips of her eyelashes and the ends of her hair, and my heart swells.

"Aw, hell, this isn't how I wanted to do this," I say, taking her hands in mine as I realize they're bare. "What happened to your gloves?"

"They sort of…disintegrated. I've had them for a long time _and_ I got them secondhand; I'm surprised they lasted this long. Chandler, this isn't how you wanted to do what?"

"That roof is where we really started to get to know each other, you know? That's where we became friends."

"So? What's your point?" She looks completely baffled right now, and I can't say as I blame her.

"Then again," I say, looking at the Moonlight Lounge beside of us, having gone no further than a few steps away from the establishment in either direction. "This is where we met. We got to know each other here, too."

"Chandler, what are you talking about?"

I give her hands a squeeze, smiling at her. "I love you; you know that, right? I mean, I love you more than any one person ought to love another. You're the most important person in the world to me."

Her eyes grow a little misty as she smiles back at me. "I know; I can never hear it enough, but I know."

I search her eyes, so blue even in the dark, and find nothing but love—how'd I get so lucky? I shake my head and laugh. "Oh, God."

"What? What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry; I've never done this before."

"Done what?"

I let out a deep breath and drop to one knee, keeping her hands in mine. "Monica…will you marry me?" I can feel my heart in my throat, and I'm breathing so rapidly I'm probably going to pass out.

Her mouth drops open in shock. "What?"

"I know it's fast. I know that we've only known each other for about six months and we haven't been together for that long, but I know I love you. I know I'll love you forever, and I want nothing more in this world than to be your husband."

"Oh, my God, Chandler—"

I hurry to cut her off, not ready to be turned down. "If you're not ready to say yes, just say you'll think about it." I let out a frustrated sigh, putting my forehead against her hands for a second. "Oh, damn it, I did it wrong."

"But…what was wrong with that?"

Her words don't register; I just shake my head, irritated with myself for botching this. "No, I'm supposed to have the ring—" I make a frustrated noise and dig through my coat pocket, pulling out an old jewelry box, the hinges creaking as it opens and she gasps, pulling one of her hands from mine to cover her mouth, tears spilling out of her eyes. "I'm sorry—I can't believe I messed this up. I—"

"Yes."

My entire body freezes as I look up at her slowly. "What?"

"I'll marry you, yes."

"Really?"

She laughs happily, pulling at my arms. "Are you crazy? Of _course_ I'll marry you! Now stand up before you freeze to death."

I stand up slowly, my knees shaking, as I look at her in wonder. "You…you really want to marry me?"

She laughs and throws her arms around my neck, hugging me tightly. "Yes! Yes yes yes yes YES!"

I hold her tightly, and I can't help but feel completely shocked. Even though I was the one who asked and I hoped like hell she'd say yes, I'm still shocked. "I wanted to do it better than this," I mumble into her neck. "I thought it'd be a little romantic if I took you to our roof and asked you there. I didn't plan on asking you in the middle of the street like this."

"It was perfect," she whispers, sniffling through her tears. "I can't imagine it happening a better way."

I press my lips to her neck, still unable to find the right words for the moment. "Do you want your ring?"

"Oh!" She giggles, giving me another squeeze before pulling back to look at me. "I get a ring. Wow!"

I finally let her go, a little surprised to realize that I'm a bit teary-eyed myself. I pull the ring out of the box and take her left hand, carefully sliding it onto her ring finger. It looks like it fits. Suddenly, she's crying even harder. "Honey, what's wrong?"

"It's so beautiful. Where did you get it? _How_ did you get it? I must have cost you a fortune—"

I kiss her, cutting her off. "We're gonna get married."

"We're getting married," she answers, grinning up at me. "I'm going to be your wife."

"And we're going to be together forever."

"Forever," she whispers, resting her head on my chest, and I put my cheek on top of her head.

I hope.


	21. Chapter 21

I cuddle into Chandler, his warm skin pressing against me. I hold up my left hand, staring at my engagement ring in wonder. I feel him chuckle, kissing the top of my head. "Like it?"

"You're joking, right? It's gorgeous, but it's really too much." It really is breathtaking with its glittering diamond and ornate carvings on the band, but I can't even begin to fathom how much money he spent on this. "I don't need a ring, you know. I would marry you no matter what."

He leans down, kissing me gently. "I have a confession."

"You robbed a jewelry store?" I ask teasingly.

"Ah, you found me out. I'm a jewel thief." I giggle a little, settling my head into the crook of his arm. "No, that ring was my grandmother's."

My mouth goes completely dry. "It was your grandmother's?" I whisper.

"Mmmhmm," he answers, running his fingers up and down my arm. "My mother brought it out to me."

I prop myself up on my elbow, staring at him. "Your mother? Why do I feel like I'm missing a part of the story?"

He reaches up to me, gently stroking my face, and I feel my heart start to quicken. The way he looks at me…

"I guess it was almost a week after Christmas. She actually came into the city to visit me. I was a little surprised because she's not much for the city and avoids it when she can, but nevertheless. I would have told you about it, but that's when she brought the ring. She didn't mention anything about our night together—I'm sure she was able to figure it out, though—but she told me she assumed I'd be asking you to marry me at some point, and she wanted me to be prepared."

I feel a tiny twinge of disappointment tug at my heart. "So you asked me to marry you because your mother—"

He laughs, not letting me finish that thought. "Don't even think that. I was going to propose to you no matter what—you know that. Having the ring just made me want to make it special, and the roof was the best thing I could come up with. Instead, you got me down on one knee in front of the Moonlight Lounge." He sighs, shaking his head. "God, I'm such a cad."

I lean down and kiss him. "No, you're not," I assure him.

"Look; my mother is really good at reading people. It's a talent she has. She can usually tell within a few moments exactly how they feel about each other, and she told me she _knew_ the first time she saw us together that I was in love with you."

"But we weren't even together then."

He shakes his head at me, smiling. "Doesn't matter. She knew, and I guess the couple of times I talked to her after that just sealed the deal. I don't think she would have left us alone on Christmas if she didn't think something special was happening between us." He carefully takes hold of my arm, pulling me to him, my body draping over his a little. "She knew you were my forever," he whispers, and my breath catches in my throat. "How much I love you was already obvious to the world; it just took us a little while to catch up."

"So, your mother met me once and—"

"She knew that I was in love with you. She even questioned me about it a little that day, but…she knew. She knew you were in love with me, too."

I can't help buy roll my eyes a little. "Well, that's not surprising, given how I was mooning over you at that point."

He gives me a funny look. "I don't think you were mooning over me."

"Well, you're probably the only one. From the moment I first saw you, I knew I felt something unlike anything else."

"Yeah, hate. You really disliked me then, Mon."

"I didn't dislike you; I was disappointed with you."

"Ugh. Somehow, that's worse."

"I wanted you to be this perfect, wonderful guy and you were, well…"

He cringes, looking ashamed. "I know."

I slide my hand across his cheek, hopefully reassuringly. "No, honey, I was wrong. You _are_ perfect and wonderful. I just needed to give you a chance."

He shakes his head, looking away from me. "I'm not perfect."

I duck my head to meet his eyes. "You are to me."

He swallows heavily and I slide my body on top of his, kissing him gently. His arms wrap around my back, his fingers tracing up my spine to tangle in my hair. For as hot and heavy as we were outside the Lounge a little while ago, nothing has actually happened since we got to the apartment I now share with Phoebe. We got to my bed and undressed each other, but then we spent some time just holding one another. I'm finding that feel of his body pressed against mine, skin on skin, can be comforting.

It took a little bit of time for me to completely relax with Chandler; as good as that first night felt, things have gotten so much better since then. Getting used to the idea of being completely naked, of him seeing me naked, was probably the hardest, but when the man you love looks at you with nothing but desire in those moments, it gets easier. He lets me take the lead, he guides me when I need it, and he just loves me. Phoebe was right when she told me sex is fun, but it's more than that. I don't have the words for it, but it's…a connection I have with Chandler, something that shakes me right down to the core. When I'm in his arms, I know that nothing else matters.

He moans a little and I feel him stirring beneath me, making me breath a little heavier. _I_ do that to him. _I_ excite him and fill him with desire. It's the most amazing feeling.

I shift my hips against him, reveling in the noises that he makes. His fingers tighten in my hair, keeping our lips together, kissing me harder and I dig my nails into his shoulders.

"Monica," he says softly, his hips thrusting up against mine just a little. I reach up and grab his hands, bringing them to the mattress and sit up. I feel the blanket pool around my hips and he groans softly, staring at me. I smile down at him, running my fingers softly over his stomach before scooting back to his thighs.

Tentatively, I reach out for him, taking his warm flesh in my hands. His eyes roll back and he grabs my knees, his fingers flexing as I slowly drag a finger up him.

This is something I haven't done much of, mostly because it makes me a little nervous. I don't want to hurt him by accident, and it's a little daunting. He makes me so curious, though, his reaction to every little touch almost exaggerated. But this part, getting him ready for the act, is utterly fascinating. Feeling him change and grow beneath my fingers, his blood pulsating, his soft, warm skin…I love it. I'm learning that I love to do this to him.

I look down at my hands, watching him, enthralled; I can hear him breathing heavily.

He's so beautiful it makes me ache.

I grasp him a little more firmly and he moans, his hips coming off the bed a little. I gasp a little in response, sliding closer to him.

"Look at me," he whispers, and I shyly lift my eyes to his. He's staring at me so intently I think my soul actually shivers. His mouth drops open as he breathes a little harder, and I move my hands faster in response, eager for more of him, for more of his response to my touch.

His fingers tighten on the backs of my knees and he pulls me closer and I moan as I come into contact with him. His hands slide up to my hips, gripping me hard, hissing when I pull him against me.

"Oh, my God," I say softly at the contact, and I suddenly like I'm right back to where I was before he proposed—so desperate for him, I think I could combust. I rock against him, pushing myself on him, amazed that the sensation is this incredible. I finally take my hands off him and lean back, bracing myself on his thighs. He pulls me against him faster and I push down, both of us groaning at the increased contact. My insides quiver and I pull myself up his hips carefully until I'm resting on his stomach. I lean over the edge of the bed and dig through the little crate I use as a nightstand, the prophylactics hidden in there somewhere—it's hard to remember when my mind is this hazy.

Then his fingers glide against me softly; I drop my head to his shoulder as I moan in his ear. He chuckles a little and I push against his hand, my entire body jumping a little at the increased contact.

He lifts my hips gently with his free hand, sliding his fingers into me, and this time I moan loudly; I don't know why this feels so good, almost as good as actually being with him, but it does. He seems to like doing this; he watches me as he does it, studying me intently, sometimes going slow, sometimes fast.

Tonight he seems to want to go slow. Interesting, because I feel like going fast.

Maybe we can compromise.

I push myself up a little, temporarily forgetting what I was looking for, and he immediately captures my breast in his mouth. "Ohhhhh." He puts his hand on my back, pushing me closer, and I feel his teeth scraping over me gently. I never knew my breasts would be so wonderfully sensitive, or that having someone pay such attention to them would be so incredible. I'm not sure if it's experience or luck but he seems to know just what to do, when to go at it furiously and when to pull back so that his touch is lighter than a whisper.

It makes me crazy, but in a way I thoroughly enjoy.

He rubs the heel of his hand against me and I push down on him harder, my mouth dropping open as I moan.

At first, I was self-conscious about making much noise—to a degree, there was no way I could really help it. Some of the things he did to me made me make noise, but I tried to hold it in a little. I also didn't know if that was something that was supposed to happen. Of course, when he started calling my name and emitting glorious sounds of his own, I knew I was on the right track. The walls in this place are so thin, though, that I was worried that everyone else would be able to hear me—hear _us_. But the walls being thin goes both ways, as there are a lot of people doing a lot of different things at all hours of the day and night, some of which I can't identify, nor do I know if I want to. It did make me care less if anyone could hear us, though. Only if Phoebe's trying to sleep do I worry about volume.

We try not to when she's around but sometimes…it just can't be helped.

"You ready?" he breathes and I slowly open my eyes, focusing on his lovely face, already covered in a fine sheen of sweat. I nod weakly and lean over him once more. He doesn't stop moving his hand though, and I nearly fall off the bed as he continues to thrust.

I grab onto his arm and dig my nails in to his bicep. He just laughs lightly.

"I hate you," I moan, pawing through the crate again.

"I know," he murmurs, granting me a bit of mercy, slowing down to just a gentle stroke. I finally find a condom buried beneath my clutter and hold it up to him. "Would you?" he asks, his voice shaky.

I nod and slide off him, carefully opening the package, my own hands shaking a little; he takes care of this part more often than I do. Before I can even take it out its package, he thrusts his fingers into me again and I grab onto his forearm for balance, going rigid for a moment.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to do this when you won't stop touching me?" I ask breathlessly.

"I _can't_ stop touching you," he answers, his thumb rubbing across me gently.

I groan and arch my back, pushing into him. "Don't you want to get to the good part?"

"It's all the good part for me."

"Ohhhhhh God." His fingers curl inside me and with strength I didn't know I had, I push myself off him, breathing heavily. We stare at each other for a few moments, and I can see that he's trying his hardest not to look too smug. I slide away from him, just out of his reach and pull out the condom. I move to kneel between his legs, trailing my fingers up and down him again. He clenches his jaw, the sheet fisted between his fingers. He tries to keep his breathing steady, but I think it's a losing battle.

"I've been doing some more reading," I tell him softly, running my fingers over him, his stomach muscles twitching.

"About?" he asks, his voice choked, and I start to feel a little smug myself.

"You know that thing you like to do to me? The part with your mouth?"

He smiles at me, his eyes heavy-lidded. "Oh, yeah," he drawls, and I tighten my grip around him a fraction.

"Well, did you know that there's something _I_ can do that's similar?"

His eyes grow wide. "Mon, you don't have to—"

I take a deep breath to push down my nerves and lean down, running my tongue over him carefully. His hips jerk as he makes a choked noise, so I do it again. I'm a little surprised to find that it's not that bad. I suppose it's like everything else—reading about it doesn't do it justice. Actually, reading about it sounded a little, well, gross, but then again, so did his part. When he does it to me, it doesn't _feel_ gross at all. I want to be able to make him feel as good as he makes me feel; the added bonus to this seems to be that I immediately get the upper hand.

I put the condom on his stomach and grab his hips, watching his face. His eyes are still wide, his breathing even heavier, and ever muscle in his body looks tensed. He grabs my hands suddenly, giving them a little tug. "You win," he gasps. "You win."

I grab the prophylactic again and sit up, sheathing him with a lot more outward confidence than I feel. "Don't you forget it." I shift up, hovering over him, and he puts his hands on my hips, holding me steady as I slowly slide down him. My eyes fall shut, my senses going on overload, and I put my hands on his, clutching his fingers tightly. He hisses out through his teeth and I force my eyes open, trying to watch him. His muscles are still tensed, his fingers digging into my hips, and I watch him breathe deeply. I shift forward, running my hands over his stomach, his sides, and his eyes fly open. I swallow heavily, licking my lips in anticipation, and he gives me a tiny nod.

I start to move.

I may have been nervous about it at first, but I found I actually like being on top. It gives me some of the control, which helped to ease some of my nervousness about everything, and it definitely changes the way everything feels.

Chandler says he likes watching me.

"Ohhh. Ohhhhhh." I move my hips against his, back and forth, feeling pressure starting to build deep within me. I dig my nails into his chest as my head drops, and I can feel sweat slipping down my body. I brace my hands on his chest and move faster, the sound of our skin hitting against each other extraordinarily erotic.

He puts his hands on my thighs, slowing me down, and I look up at him, gasping. "What's your hurry?"

I fall forward, wrapping my arms around him. "Feels good," I answer, pressing my lips to his, moving my hips again. He moves to meet me, his pelvis coming off the bed as he moves faster and faster, his hands grasping my backside, moving me even faster.

"Oh. Oh, God. Oh, _God_." I bury my face in his neck, and he presses a kiss to my ear. "Yes. Please, yes."

He thrusts into me at an impossible speed before he stops completely, gasping for air. "Not yet," he grunts, stroking his hands down my back.

I moan into his skin for a few moments, feeling myself wind down just a little, already eager to build up once again. I push myself back to a sitting position and he grabs my hands, linking our fingers. I move slower this time, watching his face, concentration furrowing his brow. His eyes are focused on my hips, on me pushing up and sliding down him. I feel him shudder beneath me and I wiggle just a little, smiling when he moans.

"You're so beautiful, Monica." He gasps a few times, his fingers tightening. "Oh, my God, how are you mine?"

"Yours forever," I tell him, panting just a little. "Forever and ever."

He pulls my left hand to his mouth, kissing my ring finger, and I feel myself falter a bit. I spread my fingers out, cupping his face, managing to keep our fingers mostly intertwined. "I love you," he tells me softly, and tears spring to my eyes.

"I love you, too."

I feel him thrust up just a tiny bit and I push my hips forward, rocking back and forth. My head falls back and I call out to the ceiling. Our fingers grip tighter. "Ohhh." I gasp suddenly. "Ahhh, ahhhhhh." I close my eyes tightly, biting my lip.

Being with him like this, I can't understand why anyone would think something this beautiful could be wrong. How can some people consider it "dirty" or "sinful"? I have to believe those are people who have either never done it, or have been with the wrong person. Nothing feels more right, and he makes me feel complete.

He sits up suddenly, his arms wrapping around me, our lips meeting in a series of gasping kisses. My legs wrap around his waist and I groan at the contact, the friction we create, and I don't think I can possibly hold out much longer.

"Oh, my God, Chandler, yes." He pushes up against me, somehow rotating his hips in the process, and I bite back a sob at how good it feels. I dig my nails into his back, dragging them slowly down his skin. He hisses a little in pain but it just makes him move faster.

"Feel so good," he grunts into my ear. "Oh, you're so good."

I push myself against him harder, faster, pulling back to look into his eyes. They're so dark right now, like deep pools that I could get lost in forever, and I'm so close right now it hurts. "Touch me," I breathe, my voice not even a whisper, and I can't even believe I've said it.

He smiles against my lips. "Do it yourself."

I shake my head, gasping. "Your job. You're the husband."

One of his hands comes up, cupping my breast. "Like this?" He rolls my nipple in between his fingers. "Or this?"

"Chandler," I groan, holding onto him tighter; he's taunting me. He knows what I mean, but he wants to torture me.

He brings up his other hand, now cupping both breasts. "Better?"

"You're such an ass," I groan, wrapping my legs around him tighter.

He groans, his forehead resting on my chest for a moment. "Such language," he gasps outs.

"Got it from you," I tell him, trying to push myself against him faster. He bends down a little more and captures my nipple between his teeth, tugging it just a little. "Oh, God!"

Finally, mercifully, one of his hands slides between our bodies, finding my sensitive nub of flesh, and I jerk against him. "That what you wanted?" he manages to whisper, his breath hot against my overly-sensitized skin, but I can't answer. I've run out of words.

I slide one of my hands up to his head, grabbing his hair, but he refuses to release my breast. His fingers increase the pressure and I gasp loudly before letting out a long, low moan.

This is better than good. I feel like I'm dying, but it's still phenomenal.

His fingers move again and my body snaps to attention. I immediately reach in between us to keep his hand in place, pushing down on it to keep him where I need it the most, and my body starts to spasm out of control, the wonderful sensation of pleasure beyond anything I've known before washing over me, pushing me to the brink of insanity. My other hand yanks at his hair and he looks up finally, the look in his eyes pushing me more thoroughly over the edge as a yell leaves me, probably waking the neighbors. "Oh, my God!"

He snaps, too, his trapped fingers moving against me furiously, trying to get more out of me. His other arm wraps around me, pulling me tight against him and I see stars. Stars and fireworks. Everything is so intense I have to close my eyes against it all. I feel him thrusting wildly against me and he moans my name loudly; we clutch at each other and I force my eyes open, meeting his. We move as one for a few more moments before our bodies go limp and I collapse against him. We drag our arms out from between our bodies, holding onto each other loosely as we breathe heavily.

I reach up a hand and stroke his sweaty hair and he kisses my shoulder. "Did we die?" he asks weakly.

I sigh into his neck, my body melting into his. "Maybe."

With a groan he falls back, taking me with him. A little reluctantly, I roll of him, grabbing the wastebasket off the floor so he can dispose of the prophylactic. A few moments later I drag the quilt over our cooling bodies and he wraps himself around me, nestling his head on my chest. I run my hand over his cheek and he turns his face, kissing my palm.

"You probably won't be able to wear that ring around in this neighborhood," he mumbles.

I feel disappointed, even though I know he's right. "Yeah." I kiss his forehead, feeling his lips respond against my skin. "I have my mother's gold chain; I can keep the ring there. It'll be good for at work, too."

"One day, Monica…I promise you I'll take you away from all this. I'll give you a beautiful home and you'll never have to worry about anything."

I want that life with him so badly it hurts. Right now, I don't even care about getting out of this seedy, rundown neighborhood; I just want to be with him. I don't want him to leave; I'll work in the Moonlight Lounge forever if it means keeping him safe.

"Sleepy," he says suddenly, his voice drowsy.

"I know," I whisper, stroking his hair. He's usually awake for the better part of the day and night; he has to be dressed in uniform, everything ready by seven in the morning, he's usually busy with training and things until at least six or seven at night, then he comes into the Lounge to spend time with me. For almost as long as I've known him, we've gone out after work, talking until the wee small hours, or now he comes here when he can; he probably only gets three or four hours a night. He doesn't complain, though, nor does he ever really seem tired. It's only after we've been together that he seems exhausted, so I just let him sleep. I'm usually still wide awake, especially since moving in with Phoebe I've become quite a night owl, often sitting up with her after Chandler's left, talking and smoking and drinking coffee until after sunrise.

I feel him shiver a little, burrowing closer to me. "Tomorrow I'm getting you another blanket. It's too cold."

"You don't have to do that," I tell him, wrapping my arms around him tighter.

"Just as much for me as for you," he tells me with a yawn.

"Okay," I whisper, knowing he probably won't even remember this in the morning.

"Love you," he mumbles, his voice fading off before the words can completely leave his lips.

"Love you, too," I answer, kissing his forehead. I love holding him, though. I like that I get to have some time to watch him, taking him all in. He looks like a little boy as he sleeps, his eyelashes fluttering as his eyes move beneath the lids, mumbling occasionally, pulling me closer. Friday and Saturday nights are the best; he's usually free most of the weekend, so he can stay with me as long as he wants, often waking me up by pressing me into the mattress, giving me sleepy kisses, his body already awake and ready for me.

I wonder how much longer these little moments of heaven will last.

* * *

><p>*AN…someone asked a few chapters ago about Chandler's mom being a romance novelist in this story—sorry, but no. She's more of a wealthy widow.

Also, someone else mentioned how I had over 300 reviews for this story…um, yeah. Have I mentioned how much you guys rock? That's all you, guys, and I can't thank you enough. It's kind of bodacious, actually. So, seriously, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.


	22. Chapter 22

My mind is blank.

Just…empty.

I'm not prepared for this.

I knew it was coming, but I am in no way ready.

I ship out in the morning.

The thought makes me almost double over.

I don't want to go. I don't want to go, I don't want to go, I don't want to go.

The last few months of my life have the best ever. I've been able to mostly ignore the horrible truth looming over me—spending time with my friends and my fiancée, laughing and having a good time—forgetting that it's all just an illusion and it can disappear in an instant.

I don't even know how I'm going to tell Monica. I know she's also aware that this day is inevitable, but I think she's been taking a page out of my book—ignoring it.

I feel tears well up in my eyes and I put my head down as I walk, crossing my arms over my chest.

This can't be happening.

I'm supposed to get married. We haven't decided on when—we may be ignoring the inevitable, but neither of us are completely delusional—but it's going to happen at some point.

Now I don't know if I'll ever get the chance.

I have to leave the love of my life and I don't know if I'll ever get to see her again.

My stomach turns and I rush down an alley, only making it a few feet before I get sick. I press my forehead against the side of a building, the brick cool on my hot skin.

I want to see Monica; I desperately need to see her. But I keep thinking if I push it off, maybe this won't really happen. If I don't say it out loud, maybe it's not true.

Up until now, today has been really great. I went home with Monica last night, and we actually slept in a little, waking up with the sun hitting our eyes. I spent the morning and early afternoon with her, wasting most of that time in bed, talking about what our life will be like when we get married, only leaving for a little while to make sure everything was ready for my usual Monday morning.

All the stupid things people our age are supposed to talk about, the things that are supposed to be a reality.

I suppose we must have been delusional enough to let ourselves believe that our future was going to be simple.

I drag myself out of the alley, scooping snow off a windowsill as I walk by, shoving it in my mouth to get the taste of vomit out.

I am not ready to do this. After Pearl Harbor was attacked, it really did become our fight, and I understand why my number's come up. But understanding it and accepting are two different things.

Ross seemed to accept it. I don't know how he's so calm about this, but for as long as I've known him, he's been ready to serve his country.

I'm just a coward.

If I hadn't been such an idiot, I wouldn't be in the position at all. I could have finished college and some old family friend would have found a place for me somewhere; I probably would never really work, but I'd sure as hell have gotten paid. But no; spending all of my time drinking and fighting and chasing after girls seemed like a swell idea.

But…if I hadn't been such an idiot, I never would have met Monica.

That's a horrifying thought.

No, it's beyond horrifying; it's actually worse than the thought of going to war.

If I'd never met Monica…

I shudder.

I can't think about that.

How miserable I'd be without her.

I know one thing for sure—now I have something to live for. I have a reason to want to come out of all of this alive, and it's all in one tiny, perfect package.

I need to see her now.

I push myself and start running.

I bolt up the five flights of stairs to her apartment, some of her neighbors poking their heads out to complain about the commotion but I don't stop; I don't care.

I do my best not to bang on her door when I get to it, panting, and she opens it a moment later, smiling at me happily.

"Hi. I wasn't expecting you back so soon." I step forward and grab her shoulders, and her face crumples in concern. "Chandler, what's wrong?"

"Let's elope," I blurt out.

Her eyes grow wide in shock. "What?"

"Let's do it. We'll find a justice of the peace, we'll get hitched, and we'll be husband and wife." I feel my heart start to hammer as I panic. "C'mon, Monica, what do you say?"

"What's going on?" I take a deep breath and step toward her, my hands gently holding her face, my forehead resting against hers as I try, somehow, to control my shaking. "Chandler?"

"I got my orders," I whisper, tears filling my eyes, trickling down my cheeks despite my best efforts.

She gasps, her hands coming up to clutch my arms. "No."

"I'm so sorry," I tell her, even though there's nothing I could have done to prevent it.

"No," she says again, a little louder this time, her voice choked with tears. "No. You're lying."

"Oh, Lord, I wish I were."

She pulls her head back, looking at me, and it breaks my heart. She looks so distraught, so lost, her face wet with tears. "I'm not ready for this," she whispers. "When?"

"Oh six hundred. Tomorrow morning."

Her face goes pale and she actually starts to collapse; I pull her toward me, wrapping her in my arms. _This_ is something I can focus on. Comforting Monica will make me feel better. "No," she says weakly. "No, it's not true."

I rock her back and forth, gently. "It's happening."

"Why so fast?"

That was my question, too, but one that went unanswered. The Navy's prerogative, I'm assuming. "I don't know, honey."

Her fingers tighten on my coat. "I won't let you go."

"I don't know that we have a choice."

"_I won't let you go_."

I bury my face in her sweet-smelling hair. "If there was anybody in this world that could single-handedly take down the US Navy, it's you. But I think…I think…" My voice breaks, and I can't go on. I don't know how to go on. "Maybe it'll be all right. Maybe I'll make it home."

"They wouldn't need to send so many of you over there if people were making it out alive."

The words hit me like a punch in the gut because I know it's true. I'm sure part of the numbers being sent over there are actually reinforcements, but some of us have to be replacements. We're all interchangeable, and we're all expendable.

"Ross, too?" she asks quietly, her face pressed against my neck, and I pull her closer.

"Ross, too," I confirm, and a sob erupts out of her. "Monica, I'm so sorry. I wish there was another way."

"We knew this was coming," she whispers into my shoulder, her body shaking. "I just thought if I ignored it…maybe it wasn't real."

"We should have run away when you suggested it. God, I'm such an idiot."

"No, you're not." She pulls back, her fingers gently caressing my jaw. "You were right; we can't run away. I'm just a stupid, selfish little girl who doesn't want to lose her family."

I shake my head slowly. "You're none of those things, honey. You're not. There's nothing wrong with wanting to keep your family safe."

She falls against my chest again, her tears soaking the front of my shirt. "I can't lose you. I can't lose my brother."

"I'll take care of Ross," I promise. "As long as they keep us together, I'll take care of him. Your brother will make it back home."

Her arms tighten around me. "But what about you? Who's going to take care of you? I don't know who I'd be without you."

"You won't have to find out."

"You can't promise that."

I have no response for that because she's right; I _can't_ promise that. No amount of training is going to prepare me for what it's going to be like…wherever I'm going. They haven't even told _us_. We just know we have to be ready to go.

Telling Monica about this has been much worse than finding out about it myself. _This_ is the hard part; leaving her behind. If I'd never met her, I probably wouldn't even be that concerned by this point. I probably would have filled my own head with enough false bravado that I'd be chomping at the bit to see some action. But…she's part of my life now. No; she _is_ my life. She is actually everything. She's why I wake up in the morning. She's why I want to live.

And she'll be why I stay alive.

"So let's get married," I say again, taking her face in my hands, searching her eyes. "We can do it. I'm sure we can find someone to do it for us."

"Chandler…"

"Monica, I don't want…" I stop, trying to swallow around the lump in my throat. "I just…I want to marry you."

Her hands come up, covering mine. "I want to marry you, too."

"Then why are we waiting? We could spend my last few hours here in wedded bliss."

She laughs, mirthlessly. "I don't know how much bliss I have right now."

"Then let's go," I insist, but she hesitates.

"I don't…I don't want to get married like this. I don't want us to do it because we're scared and you're leaving. When we get married it should be a happy day."

"But what if I…" I falter, the words refusing to leave my lips. What if I die? What if I don't make it back to her? I don't want to die knowing I missed this chance.

But…do I want to die knowing I'm leaving her as an eighteen-year-old widow?

"It'll give you a reason to come home to me," she says softly, smiling at me bravely.

"You're reason enough," I assure her, my stomach twisting painfully.

"Then think of it as an incentive. When you come home, the first thing we'll do is get married."

"The first thing?" I ask, trying to tease her; it comes off weak, but she smiles at me anyway.

"One of the first things. And your mother can finally have a wedding in her barn."

I laugh sadly, sniffling a little. "You'd get married in a barn for me?"

"I'd marry you anywhere."

"Just not right now," I answer, looking down.

She sighs deeply, taking my face and forcing me to look at her. "Just not for the wrong reasons."

I wrap my arms around her again and fight off the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Can't even make it through the door, can you?" Phoebe asks suddenly, coming up behind me in the hall, and it's the first time I even noticed that she wasn't in the apartment.

Some friend I am.

I'm not sure if she can see Monica's face or if she picks up on the atmosphere, but she says, "What's going on?"

"Cha—Chandler and…and…" Monica can't even make it through that sentence; I don't blame her.

I rest my head on Monica's looking at Phoebe sadly. "Ross and I got our orders. We're shipping out in the morning."

Phoebe's eyes grow wide. "What?"

"We're leaving," I answer, and I feel Monica's body shake with silent sob.

"Oh, my God." Her eyes fill with tears. "Oh, my God." She flings her arms around us and we all stumble forward a little into their apartment. "Where's Ross?"

"I don't know. I only saw him for a couple of minutes; he finished packing everything up and left, so I thought he'd be here. He seemed all right, though."

"Stupid, stupid Ross," Monica mumbles. "He's so happy to be serving his country that he doesn't stop to think what could happen to him."

"He's a lot braver than I am," I say quietly. Brave, or blindly naïve enough to think that we're going be victorious. Phoebe tightens her arms around us, and I can't help but be touched that she cares so much about what's going to happen to Ross and me. She may be happiest when she's antagonizing someone, but when it comes down to it, she's our friend, and this affects her, too.

The floor behind us creaks a little, the door swinging open a little further. "Mon?"

Monica pulls away from me, her face crumpling all over again. She walks slowly over to her big brother, wrapping her arms around his waist, mumbling something into his chest I can't make out.

"I'm going to be all right, Mon, you'll see. We'll show them that no one messes with America."

"Ross, you're so stupid!" Monica exclaims, shaking her head. "What do you think—you're just going march into Germany or Italy or wherever and tell them that America demands that they stop?"

Phoebe keeps her arms wrapped around me, her head on my chest, as we watch brother and sister sadly. "Of course not," Ross finally answers. "But we're prepared for this. We've been training for a long time. Don't you believe in me?"

"Of course I do. It's those people who'll be trying to kill you that—" Her voice breaks off into a sob, her legs giving out, and Ross struggles to catch her. I hurry over and grab her around her waist, guiding her over to her bed. I sit her down gently and crawl on next to her, pulling her against my side. I look up and see that Phoebe has her arms around Ross, holding him tightly. He looks a little perplexed by their reactions, and for the first time, I realize just how strongly he believes in what we're doing, how much faith he has in our country's ability to win this war. It's that kind of faith that could get him through all this in one piece.

Or could get him blown up in an instant.

"Chandler," he says quietly. "Don't you think we ought to be getting back soon? We only have a few hours before we have to head out."

Monica's arms tighten around me and I shake my head. "I'm not leaving. Not until I have to." I kiss the top of her head, forcing myself to inhale deeply. "You can go back if you want, but I don't know when I'm going to see these two next, and for the next few hours, being here is all that matters."

"Please stay," Phoebe says weakly; Ross looks back and forth between the three of us for a few moments before nodding, and somehow, we all manage to line up on Monica's bed, sitting side by side.

For a long time, the only sounds come from the people in the apartments around us, all of them going about their lives as if it's just a normal Sunday—some getting ready for bed, some getting ready to head out—and I suppose it is for everyone else. For me, it feels like _this_ is the day that will live in infamy.

"So, do you want to talk about your wedding?" Phoebe asks suddenly, and Monica lets out a watery chuckle.

"I still think you're too young to get married," Ross throws in, and I just sigh. He's been saying that since we told him about our engagement, despite our reassurances that we're not getting married any time soon.

Despite my earlier attempts to get Monica to marry me tonight.

"I'm eighteen, Ross," she answers.

"Oh, I forgot; you're a woman of the world. You're a whole eighteen years old so _of_ _course_ you're ready to get married."

"Don't be an ass," she tells him, wrapping her arms around me tighter. "That's not what I said. And a lot of girls get married when they're eighteen. Besides, we're not getting married _now_."

"No, I tried that; she wouldn't go for it," I throw in, and Phoebe's head whips to us, shock on her face.

"What do you mean?"

"I wanted to elope but she said no."

"He wanted to get married _tonight_ and you said _no_?" Phoebe asks, truly surprised.

I look down at Monica and can see her chin quivering. "She was right to say no," I answer. "The time's not right."

"Not right? It's not getting any better, Monica."

She remains silent, but I hear her sniffle a little.

"Well, she knew she couldn't get married without her big brother and her best friend," Ross answers, and I look up at him in surprise; he smiles back at me sympathetically. "There'll be a big wedding when we come back, right, Mon?"

I smile at him gratefully and Monica answers, "Probably not. Not a big one. We'll just get married."

"I think my mother might have something to say about that," I tell her.

"Maybe," she whispers, and we're all silent for a few minutes. "Ross, did you tell Grandma?"

"Yeah, that's where I was before I came here. She misses you, Mon—"

"Ross, don't. That's not what…just don't."

"She might need someone to lean on right now, that's all I'm saying."

"Then she should have thought about that before she called me names and hit me," she answers matter-of-factly, and I bring my fingers up to stroke her hair, my heart still hurting for what she had to go through.

Not much is said after that. The world around us settles, the quiet of New York in the snow permeating the walls, the silence almost deafening at times. From time to time, one of us will sniffle, and I think the magnitude of the situation finally starts to sink in with Ross, who spends a lot of time staring blankly at the wall in front of him.

As heartbreaking as this moment is, I wish I could freeze it and keep it forever. I don't know when I'll get another chance at something normal like this. I shudder and pull Monica closer; I don't know when I'll get to hold her again.

I feel myself drift in and out of sleep occasionally, Monica's body going slack, too, from time to time. Mostly, I try to keep myself alert; I want to take in as much of my fiancée as I can before it's all over.

At nearly four in the morning, Ross stands and stretches, and I reluctantly drag myself off the bed. Monica stands with me, her hand never leaving mine. Silently, we all bundle ourselves against the cold outside and trudge solemnly downstairs. I try to take my time—lord knows I'm in no rush to head off to my doom—but part of me is extraordinarily anxious, jittery, and makes me walk much faster than I want to.

When we get to the train station, I pull Monica in tight—I'll see her again before I leave, I know that much, but I need to feel her anyway. My heart pounds erratically in my chest and I fight for control of my emotions. Heaven knows I don't feel strong right now, but I want to be for Monica.

"Ross and I have to go get our things," I mumble into her hair. "We'll be back soon with the rest of the unit." Her arms tighten around me and I feel her body shake. I want to tell her everything will be all right, but I can't lie to her like that.

I don't think I can even lie to _myself_ like that right now.

I take her face in my hands and kiss her gently. "I'll see you soon," I whisper, and I at least know _that_ to be true.

"I love you," she answers, her voice catching in her throat, and I kiss her again. I feel Ross's hand on my shoulder, giving me a tug.

"C'mon, Chandler. We have to go."

I wrap my arms around Monica again, trying to remind myself that I will, in fact, see her in probably less than an hour. Sooner than that, the train station will likely be swarming with people anxious to say goodbye to their loved ones.

Slowly, I disentangle myself from her, taking her hands in mine and kissing her palms. Her eyes look haunted as she watches me back away from her, and it already feels like I'm being ripped in half. I keep my eyes on her until I walk out of the station, Ross waiting for me patiently. I manage to make it nearly a block before my legs all but give out and I have to brace myself against the wall of nearby building.

Ross grabs my arm and I can hear his voice, but it sounds garbled and muffled. I can hear a pounding in my ears and the sound of my own rapid breathing. I look up at my friend—his face is concerned, and it looks like he's asking if I'm all right, and I just shake my head.

Of course I'm not all right. Despite the impending war, the last few months have been perfect. I made friends. I fell in love—honest-to-God, forever-isn't-long-enough love, and it feels like it's already slipping away. How can I be expected to be satisfied with only a few months? Almost twenty-two years on this earth and this is all I get? That's not fair. I shouldn't have to leave this now. I shouldn't have to leave _her_. I don't care if "it's better to have loved deeply for a short time than to have never loved at all" or whatever rot eternal optimists want to spout. I want to be by her side forever.

This isn't fair.

I feel Ross pull me to a standing position, dragging me along with him; I look over my shoulder as he guides me, as if being able to see the train station means I'm not leaving the love of my life. Ross doesn't understand it; yes, she's his sister and he loves her dearly, but she's still only his sister as far as he's concerned. She's not his other half. She's not the reason he breathes in and out every day.

"How am I supposed to leave her?" I mumble, more to the world than to anyone else. "How can I leave?"

How?


	23. Chapter 23

I feel hollow. That's the only way to describe it. I feel like my heart has been ripped out of my chest.

It might as well be true; Chandler's leaving.

He isn't even gone yet and it already feels like nothing matters.

Phoebe has her arm around me as we sit on a bench waiting for them to return, and I keep reminding myself that she's hurting, too. Ross and Chandler are her friends and even though she does a much better job of hiding her feelings than I do, she's scared for them as well.

But it's hard not to focus on just how lost I feel right now. Knowing that this day is coming and the day actually being here are two very different animals. Up until a few hours ago, I knew that _someday_ my brother and my fiancé would be shipping out, but I could live in blissful ignorance and pretend it wasn't happening, or that it was some horrible game of make believe.

But now…what I've had with Chandler for the last few months feels like the game of pretend. It feels like a world we made up to ignore the horror going on around us. It already feels like it's slipping away.

I glance down at my left hand, my engagement ring glittering in the low light of the train station. I rub my thumb over the band, watching the diamond twinkle just a bit.

It's real. I need to keep reminding myself of that. It may have been the world's shortest courtship, but it was real. The time I've spent getting to know Chandler has been the best of my life; the last couple of months with him—first as his girlfriend, then as his fiancée—have been amazing. I didn't know I could love a person so much. Any time it all starts to feel like a dream, I need to look at this ring. When he gets home, we're getting married.

If he gets home.

No; _when_ he gets home.

Why didn't I marry him last night when he suggested it? I'm so stupid. I could be his wife right now.

And what would that solve?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He'd still be leaving in a matter of minutes. Being his wife wouldn't change that. This war would still be happening, and he would still be obliged to follow orders.

And my brother. My stupid, wonderful brother. The one who's been the one thing I could depend on my entire life is leaving me, too. He's the only family I have left. I can't lose him, either. Who else is going to tease me and make fun of me, and act disgusted about me and Chandler even though he's actually really happy for us?

This isn't fair.

I don't care that life isn't fair. Who said life isn't fair? That's what I want to know. No one ever said it was fair, but the opposite was never written in stone, either, and I think the four of us have had to deal with enough pain and hardship in our short lives. We have one parent between us, and one sibling, too. Phoebe has spent her entire life on her own just trying to get by. Ross and I had to watch our mother die and our father slowly kill himself—if it hadn't been gangsters, it would have been the booze. And Chandler...my poor, sweet, Chandler. He found his father's dead body. All when we were just kids, too. Haven't we dealt with enough? Hasn't life been cruel enough? Why do these two brave men have to go off and fight someone else's fight? Why does it feel like we've all been fighting someone else's fight our entire lives?

Where's the justice in the world?

I sniffle and wrap an arm around Phoebe's waist.

They should be back any time now.

I look around the station, surprised to find that it's now crowded; weeping mothers, scared wives, confused children, all gathered here before the break of dawn to say goodbye to someone they love. Possibly for forever.

I double over as that thought hits me again; this could be the last time I see either of them. Or both of them. I fight back the wave of dizziness that nearly overtakes me.

I'm not grown up enough for this. Nothing has prepared me to handle something like this. Losing my parents was tragic, but unexpected both times. This feels like I know exactly how long they have left to live and there's nothing I can do to stop the clock.

I'm sure there are worse, more real forms of torture, but I can't think of any at the moment. This is agony.

I hear a small commotion and see people rushing forward; through the throng I can see uniforms all crisp and white. Some people cheer for the men as they make their way through the crowd, shaking hands occasionally, smiling bravely, and I can't help but notice how young they all look. A lot of them are probably my age. That's not fair. They've barely started to live—how many of them will be lucky enough to come back alive?

Phoebe and I stand, both of us going up on tiptoes to try to catch a glimpse of our loved ones. We haven't moved from where they left us over an hour ago; we won't be hard for them to find.

I watch family rush forward, arms out to hug their sons, brothers, fathers, and uncles as they head out to war, and my heart breaks for every single one of us.

I see Ross's face, and I feel equal amounts of relief and fear, both fighting for dominance. He gives me a wave and a smile, and I turn my head to look at Phoebe. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, sighing. He keeps romanticizing this war. He's an eternal optimist—it's one of his best traits—but I just want him to be realistic about what could happen. At the very least he shouldn't think he's going on some great adventure.

He reaches out and wraps his arms around me, and I squeeze him tight. "Don't you die on me, Ross. I need my big brother."

"Don't worry about me, Mon," he says reassuringly. "I'll be careful, I promise."

Careful. Right. Like he's going for a swim just a little too soon after eating but wants to take the risk. But it's probably the best I'm going to get out of him right now. "You better be. _You_ have to give me away at my wedding."

He smiles down at me crookedly, looking a little misty-eyed for the first time. "I'll walk you down the aisle but I'm not going to give you away. Chandler will just have to accept that I'll always be part of your life."

I shake my head just a little. "I think he knows that."

"I'm just saying."

"Well, it's been noted. I'll make sure to pass that along."

We look at each other for a few moments, and I swear I can feel my heart cracking. My big brother is going off to war. I'm still so proud of him, but that doesn't make this moment any easier. He pulls me back to him and I bury myself in his arms. "You take care of yourself, Monica. And think about Grandma, all right? This isn't going to be easy for her, either."

I say nothing; I just tighten my arms around him. Maybe I'll be able to talk to her someday, but it's all still too fresh, too painful, and right now, it's the least of my concerns.

He pulls back, smiling at me fondly before he ruffles my hair. I bat his hand away, giving him my best put upon look. "I love you, little sister," he tells me, and my eyes fill with tears.

"I love you, big brother."

He moves over to Phoebe and Chandler is before me; suddenly I feel like I did the first time I saw him. My knees go weak, my heart flutters, and all I want to do is look at him. I shake my head at him a little, smiling.

"What?" he asks, looking confused.

"What you do to me," I say softly. "What you've always done to me."

He reaches out, gently running his fingers through my hair. "Whatever it is I do to you, multiply that by a million. Then you'll have what you do to me."

My breath catches in my throat and I fall into him, grabbing the back of his uniform as I try to keep my tears at bay. He feels bad enough about this as it is, I don't want to make him feel worse. "Chandler…"

"I knew, Monica. I knew the first time I saw you that you were something special. I couldn't stop thinking about you no matter how hard I tried. Thank you for giving me a chance."

"Thank you for not giving up on me."

"I love you, baby, never forget that. And when this whole mess is over and I come home…" he pauses, his arms tightening around me, and I can hear his heart thumping faster beneath my ear. "When I come home…"

I nod, tilting my head back to look at him. "We're gonna get married, and we're gonna spend our lives together."

"Damn straight," he answers, his eyes full of fear belying his confident words. "We'll get married and we'll live happily ever after."

I nod again, biting the inside of my cheek to hold back my tears. I bring my hands up to the back of his neck and stand on tiptoes, pulling his lips to mine. His arms pull me closer, and for the first time ever, our kiss isn't filled with promise and hope; it's sad, scared, full of desperation to hold on to this moment, to remember each other this way.

I hear catcalling and realize it's Chandler and Ross's buddies, all teasing my fiancé for his very public display of affection. He just shakes his head a little, kissing me again, trying to ignore the commotion around us.

"Way to go, Bing!"

"Woo-woo!"

"Get her, Bing!"

I stroke his jaw softly, finding the spot I punched all those months ago. "Friends of yours?"

"No one I know," he answers, winking at me. He kisses me again, gently, and I feel tears fill my eyes despite myself.

"Stupid Navy," I say, childishly. "I hate the stupid Navy and this stupid war."

"Monica," he says, carefully taking my face in my hands. "If I hadn't been such a screw up, I never would have gotten the ultimatum to go to jail or enlist. And if I hadn't enlisted, I never would have met Ross, and if I hadn't met Ross, I wouldn't have met _you_. So right now, all I can be is grateful. The Navy brought me to you, and you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I will never, ever regret joining the Navy because you've made me happier than I ever thought possible."

Somehow, my heart manages to swell and collapse at the same time. "I can't live without you, Chandler. I don't even want to try. So you better come home to me. Do you understand me? I don't want one of those _letters_ letting me know that something's happened to you. I need you in one piece." A wave of sadness passes over his eyes and I grab his face with both hands. "Listen to me, Chandler. You don't get to die without me. We have another fifty or sixty years ahead of us. We have things we need to do before it's all over. You promised me a little house somewhere with a dozen babies and I'm going to hold you to that. So don't even think about dying because _I need you_."

His arms wrap around, pulling me to him, kissing me fiercely, and my heart breaks when I realize this is probably the last time I'll get to kiss him for a long time. I grip the collar of his uniform, holding on to him as tightly as I can.

I feel something jostle me from behind and Chandler is suddenly pulled away from me, one of his fellow seamen grabbing his arm to pull him onto the train.

I start to panic.

I'm not ready for this.

He holds on to my hand as he's pulled away, our fingers trying to keep touch with each other.

He looks panicked, too.

His hand slips out of mine and my heart starts to pound. "I love you!" I call, trying to be heard over the crowd, but he's nowhere to be found. "Chandler!"

The crowd of Navy men surges toward the train, loved ones calling out on top of one another, all trying to say one last word, get in one more hug, bid one more farewell. It's agonized chaos.

I jump up and down, trying to catch a glimpse of Chandler, but from the back, in a huge group, it's hard to tell one of the guys in uniform from the other. "Chandler!" I call again, even though I know it's hopeless.

I wrap my arms around my stomach, feeling it clench painfully. He's really leaving. He must be so scared.

_I'm_ so scared.

"Chandler," I whisper. Through the windows, I watch men walk through the train cars; most of them seem in good spirits, though I don't know how. They're all laughing, horsing around, and just having a good time. Phoebe's arm goes around my shoulders and I look over at her; her face is wet with tears but she smiles at me anyway.

"Did you know that when I suggested that you try to devastate Chandler by flirting with him that I knew it wouldn't work?"

I blink at her a few times, her words a big swirling mess in my head for a couple of seconds. "What?"

"I knew then that if you flirted with him, it'd just make him like you more. I knew he wouldn't get scared and pull away from you."

"So…you set me up?"

"Yes, I did," she answers proudly. "And I don't regret it for a second."

I slide my arm around her waist, a real smile pulling at my lips for the first time in hours. "Thank you."

"Well, I knew that if I left it up to you, you'd be pouting after him for eternity."

I sniffle and laugh at the same time; she's right. I had no idea what to do with how I felt about Chandler. "Oh, no!" I exclaim suddenly. "You didn't get to say goodbye to him!"

She squeezes me a little tighter. "It's all right, Monica. He knows. This was your moment."

"I feel like I didn't even get to say goodbye, really." It feels like he was torn from me with no warning, literally and metaphorically. My heart constricts painfully. I already miss him.

"Monica!"

My head snaps up—that was Chandler's voice.

"Hey, Monica!"

My eyes shoot to the train and I see him leaning out a window, waving at me. I break away from Phoebe and run over to him, stretching my arms up to touch his fingers. "Chandler!"

"I love you, too." A smile spreads across my face even as a couple of tears make their way out of the corners of my eyes. He heard me. "Will you check in on my mother once in a while?"

"Of course I will. Anything. Will you write to me?"

"Every chance I get." I try to stretch a little farther; I know it's impossible, but I just need to be close to him again. "Whoa!" he exclaims suddenly, and it looks like he's falling out of the window. I look up and see his friends behind him, holding him by his legs and waist so he can reach me. "Hi," he whispers, stroking my cheek for just a moment before our lips meet frantically.

"Promise me you'll be careful," I mumble around our lips.

"Mmmhmm."

"And keep an eye on Ross."

"Absolutely."

I can hear his friends catcalling again, but I can only assume it's all in fun; after all, they're the ones who are helping us have this moment.

The train's whistle blows and Chandler's hand slides to the back of my head, pressing his lips against mine harder. I wrap my arms around him, holding on for as long as I can. The train makes a few noises and gives a jerk, causing us to break apart. I see the panic in his eyes as the train slowly starts to make its way down the tracks and I move with it, keeping my hand on his arm.

"Be safe," I remind him.

"I will." The train picks up speed and his friends start to pull him back in. He keeps his head and arm out the window, staring at me. I try to keep up, but it's useless. "I love you, Monica!" he calls to me, his voice already getting further away.

"I love you, Chandler!" I gasp for breath, slowing my feet. He waves at me and I lift my arm over my head weakly, watching him grow smaller and smaller.

His train rounds a corner, pulling out of sight, and my legs give out. I drop to the floor, my entire body starting to shake. "He's gone," I gasp, not caring if anyone can hear me. "He's gone." Tears fall from my eyes in a never ending torrent. I try to breathe but can't; my head spins, my stomach tightens painfully. I curl into a ball, tremors coursing through me, sobs I've never known before pouring out of me.

I feel a hand on my arm but I can't move. It gives me a gentle tug and pulls me onto a lap, and I realize it's Phoebe. She strokes my hair, and I can hear her speaking to me but nothing registers.

Nothing matters.

I let out a wail and punch the ground, the physical pain nothing compared to what I'm feeling on the inside.

Phoebe hugs me tighter to her chest, rocking us back and forth gently; I clutch at her arm, sobbing.

He's gone.

And nothing matters.

* * *

><p>The End.<p>

No, I'm totally kidding.

*A/N…so first, Anissa—you mentioned another Mondler war story and some of us are wondering what it's called and where we'd find it. Could you post a link or something? Thanks!

All right, so this definitely isn't the end of this story, but I'd say that the format changes a bit from here on out, so bear with me a little. I guess it's sort of the end of part 1, so…yeah. Thanks for hanging in there with me!


	24. Chapter 24

March, 1943

Monica

The lunch whistle blows and I stand, stretching. The machines around me come to a halt and women emerge from various places, all headed toward the door at one time. I drop my wrench and drag my arm across my forehead, following my coworkers. I wait patiently to grab my lunchbox and coat, knowing everyone else is just as eager to punch out for a few minutes and get some fresh air.

As soon as I step outside I breathe deeply, taking in the cold, late winter air. A moment later, I shiver and tug the coat around me a little tighter. The difference in temperature is ridiculous. First thing in the morning, the factory is just as cold if not colder than the outside; within an hour, after all of the machines have started up, it's sweltering, the temperature rising to summer-like heat.

I don't even want to imagine what this place is going to feel like in a few months.

Despite the chill of the day, the picnic tables outside are already packed with workers. Some days I sit with them, try to socialize, but most days I just keep to myself. That seems fairly common around here, though I suppose it's because a lot of these women have never really worked before. It sounds like some of them barely ventured out of their homes before, at least not without their husbands nearby. Now _they_ have to take care of their families, and I think they're just a little surprised at how all of this works.

I shrug and find a tree to sit under; the ground is cold, but manageably so. I pull my lunchbox onto my lap and pause, closing my eyes.

I'm so tired—far too tired for a nineteen-year-old. Most days it's a struggle to get out of bed, though I know that has a lot more to do with Chandler than anything else.

I sigh, leaning my head against the tree trunk, my hand absently going to the chain around my neck. I pull out my engagement ring, staring at it sadly. It's been over a year. More than a year since I saw his beautiful face. More than a year since he held me in his arms.

How is that even possible? How could the time we spent together be so much shorter than the time we been apart?

Why does it still feel like a piece of me is missing?

I shake my head; because a piece of me _is_ missing. If he's not next to me…

He's alive; I know that much. At least I have that. I haven't been working here that long and I've already seen far too many women escorted out in hysterics after receiving a telegram to let them know about their dead husbands. At work of all places. I wouldn't think there's ever a good time to get that sort of news, but right in the middle of everything…it just seems so horrible. Every time one of those men shows up to deliver the news my heart stops. Logically, I know it's not for me; God forbid, if something were to happen to Chandler it'd be his mother who got the notice, not me, but that doesn't make the panic less real.

He writes to me. Sometimes I get a letter every week, sometimes it's less often. He tries to keep them cheerful and positive, and I know he can't really give me any details about where he is or what he's doing, but just seeing his handwriting…I can hear his voice when I read a letter, every nuance, every inflection, and for a few moments, it's like he's with me again.

I write to him, too, though I don't know if he gets all of my letters. I don't even know how the Navy would know where to find him, honestly. I just have to hope for the best each time I send one off.

There's just so much I want to tell him that I can't put into words. I don't know how much of our mail is being censored, either, and I despise the thought of our personal life being fodder for someone else's entertainment. So I try to keep things general; I tell him about the changing of the leaves, or sitting on our beach…simple things. I tell him that I miss him, but I try to keep that to a minimum. He has so much that he has to worry about that I don't want to burden him further. I'd rather he believe that everything is all right, that _I'm_ all right. I wouldn't want to tell him anything that would distract him, make him look away at just the wrong moment.

Sometimes I pour my heart out; I tell him everything I think and feel, everything that's happened in the last year, everything I dream about, the things I have nightmares about…but I'm never brave enough to send those letters. I can't bring myself to throw them away, either. Instead, I keep them in a box, waiting for the day I find the courage.

I glance around and see a lot of women doing what I'm doing; looking at their rings longingly. My heart breaks for every single person. A lot of these women are actually married to their loves; some even have children. We've all taken to keeping engagement rings and wedding bands on chains while at work; there are too many gears and things to get caught on. Every morning as we file into work, I watch rings come off fingers and slip onto necklaces, and every afternoon as we leave, the bands go back where they belong. It's become a ritual, one I almost take comfort in. In a way, it's like we're all in this together.

I sigh and open my lunch box, frowning for a moment at the envelope on my sandwich before a smile spreads across my face. I'd know that scrawl anywhere. Nora must have sneaked it in there last night after I went to bed.

I pull out the letter, tracing the edges with my fingertips carefully. My first instinct is to tear into it and find out what he has to say. But part of me wants to hold off and read his words in private. No matter what he has to say, I tend to cry a lot when I read something from him. However, if I _don't_ read it now, I'll think of nothing else the rest of the day.

Slowly, I slide my fingernail under the edge of the seal and pull out the weathered paper; he probably got caught in a snowfall. The paper's a little crinkled and the ink's a little smudged. I run my fingers over his words as I smile to myself. I close my eyes for a few moments, biting back my tears. Getting a letter from him is always bittersweet. It's wonderful to hear that he's alive and well, but it just serves to remind me of just how far away he is.

Will this war ever end?

I take a few deep breaths and open my eyes.

_Monica,_

_You ever notice how I never open with "Dear Monica?" It seems too formal. We never really spoke to each other that way to begin with—why would I do that now? "Dearest" far too ridiculous, and "My Love," while true, sounds like I'm trying too hard. So, "Monica" will have to do._

I chuckle and wipe my eyes. Just a few lines and I'm already emotional; it just feels like he's right next to me, rambling on about nothing. I love it.

_I would ask what's new with you, but by the time you read this, anything new will be old, and even older by the time it gets to me. Tell me anyway. Tell me everything. Tell me what you ate for breakfast, I don't care._

_I know the calendar says it's almost March, but it feels like it's still winter right now. The snow's falling down over us like in a dream, covering the countryside. It's so beautiful here, Monica, despite everything that's going on right now. At night, in the snow like this, it's breathtaking. I've never seen any place like it. Right now, everything's quiet and peaceful, which is a nice change. Maybe, one day, we can come here together. When the world isn't so scary. I'd love for you to see this, though. I want to be able to show you how beautiful the world _can_ be._

_Almost_ March. I guess it took a few weeks for this one to get to me. And he mentioned something about the countryside, so he must be in some port. I wish I knew more than that. I wish I knew where he was.

_Tell me about your new job. I can't believe you finally left The Lounge. What happened? Not that I'm complaining—the fewer men leering at you, the better in my book. Do you still get to see Phoebe, though? How's she holding up? Don't let her know, but I actually miss her sometimes. I think Ross does, too. There's no one here to pick on him the way she does._

_I'm sure you're getting letters from Ross, too, but he's still doing all right. Unfortunately, some of his optimism has faded. Sometimes, we see things here that…make it hard to sleep at night. It's not easy to keep looking at the world through rose-colored glasses. He keeps trying, though, so I'll give him that._

_It can be hard to sleep, though. I miss being able to curl up with at night, keeping each other warm. The guys here just aren't into it._

Oh, Chandler—always trying to be funny. I know there's more to it than that. Even with all these miles between us, even through a letter, I can tell if he's holding something back. What is seeing over there that's haunting him at night? I know he's never gotten much in the way of sleep, but that doesn't mean he's had trouble with it before now.

This poor man.

_The snow's getting heavier. It's still beautiful, but if I don't want to become a snowman, I better get back inside. First light comes earlier and earlier. Take care of yourself, Monica. I miss you. I love you._

_Always,  
>Chandler<em>

I sniffle, blinking rapidly to keep my tears at bay. Not that I'd be the first woman here to break down in tears over a letter from a loved one. I'll just cry at home; if I do it now, I'll be no good the rest of the day.

I look down at my lunch and wrinkle my nose. My appetite is gone for now. Nothing unusual there. It's been hard to make eating a priority over the last year. It's been hard to make much of anything a priority, truthfully, unless it was lying in bed and staring at the wall.

I never thought I'd be one of those girls who wouldn't function without her man but…it turns out that I am. Everything is so much harder without him here. I feel like I'm half a person. For months, I nearly couldn't get out of bed every day. I was lucky to keep my job at all, honestly. I just went through the motions; putting on the right amount of makeup to attract my customers' attention, laughing a little too loudly at their stupid jokes, smiling prettily as I avoided their wandering hands. It all just felt pointless.

It still does, at least for the most part. Now, though, I can just pull on a work shirt and pants, cover my hair, and work. I don't have to worry about making small talk or coming home reeking of spilled alcohol. It's a small improvement, but an improvement nonetheless.

I do miss seeing Phoebe every day. We get together every so often, but she seems to really like working at the Lounge. She's almost a mother hen to the girls there, standing up for them when they're too scared to do it for themselves.

She's a good egg, that one, and I need to make more of an effort to see her.

I slowly reread Chandler's letter, taking in every tiny detail, studying his handwriting for any signs of distress or excitement, but everything looks to be about normal. I suppose that's a good sign.

I look up and see everyone gathering their things, starting the trek back inside. I carefully fold the letter and put it back in its envelope, sticking it under my uneaten sandwich. When I get home, I'll put it with the rest of them, all carefully lined up in a box, some of them already so worn from handling them too many time.

I drag myself to my feet and join the queue of women waiting to punch back in, ready to finish out the days and head home to their families. A woman I don't know smiles at me sympathetically—I'm sure the look on my face is one that's all too familiar at the moment—and I give her a little nod.

In this small way, we all seem to understand each other, a sisterhood built on loss and sadness, with just a touch of hope.

We all have to hope. We have to hope they'll all come home safely and in one piece. Because if we don't have hope, we're lost.

*A/N…I always think I have something profound to say here until start to write it out and I blank. Sorry to screw with you guys last time by saying it was the end…t'isn't. We still have a ways to go, I promise. But, yeah…a lot of you said you cried while reading the last chapter—I have no idea if that's true, but if it is…wow. It's hard to believe I could evoke that strong of an emotion in anyone, so…wow.

Also, I've started a tumblr for this story. I've found so many pictures from this general era and I wanted to incorporate them into this somehow, so if you want to see it, it's youbystarbuckmeggie dot tumblr dot com. Enjoy


	25. Chapter 25

August 1943

Chandler

I look over my shoulder as I hear loud laughter behind me, the bar jam-packed with guys letting off a little steam. It's not often we get a night just to let loose, so I don't blame them for taking advantage of it.

I sigh heavily and turn back to the water, sitting down at the edge of the pier. I toy with the envelopes in my hands, all of them read but one. Mail delivery isn't the most reliable service at the moment because earlier today a received a handful of letters from Monica, dating back through the spring and summer. It wasn't that I thought she'd forgotten about me—most of the other guys haven't gotten a lot of mail lately, either—I just missed getting a little piece of her from time to time.

I tried to take my time with these letters so I would have something to look forward to, but one turned into two, which turned into three, and suddenly I've read seven of them. Just being able to see her pretty scrawl, to feel just a little closer to her and to home for a few minutes is addictive.

I reach up and scratch my shoulder for a moment, looking at the small stack of envelopes again. Reading her letters always gives me brief moments of joy—almost euphoria, actually—before I inevitably feel depressed and lonely. I miss her so much. I feel like I actually have a gaping hole in my chest.

A year and a half. It's been a year and a half since I last saw her, since I watched her disappear as I hung out a train car window. She looked so small, so sad…it took everything in me not to jump out and run to her, consequences be damned.

What's hard to believe is that she was just barely eighteen back then. Now she's almost twenty. _Twenty_. I feel like I'm missing out on so much.

It's not fair. We should be married by now. We should be worrying about normal things. We should have a tiny little home of our own and maybe even a baby. We should at least be working on one by now.

What I wouldn't give to be able to spend a night holding her. Her bed at Phoebe's was tiny and mildly uncomfortable, but it beats the hell out of the cold, hard cots I've been sleeping in for the last eighteen months.

But...she's living with my mother now. I'm not really sure why. I've asked, and all she's really told me is that living in the City got too hard. That's why she quit the Lounge, too, according to one of her letters. "It was too hard."

I feel like I'm missing something. Some of what she writes feels almost hesitant, like she's holding something back but I can't figure out what it is. She tries to keep her letters upbeat—maybe that's it. Maybe she's trying too hard to be positive about this whole mess of a situation. I know she doesn't want to worry me with anything going on at home, and I certainly don't want to tell her about the things I've seen. Not to mention that most of what I've experienced so far would probably be censored by someone before it ever got to her. If I'm going to write to her, I want it to be something she can read. I want to find the good in the world so I can think that maybe there's hope. Maybe Monica and I will find our happy ending one day.

Still, I hate that there are things she doesn't feel she can tell me. Some things are hard to write, though. I've never been able to accurately capture in words just how much I love her. I've tried—I've tried like hell. A lot of the other guys make fun of me for being so hung up on my girl, but I don't care. Those are the same ones who troll the shores for any willing female, eager for human contact even if they'd never admit it. I miss contact—I'll admit it—but not enough to pick up some girl I don't know to escape from reality for a few moments. Doesn't seem worth it.

I hear laughter behind me again and turn to look; Ross has his arms slung over the shoulders of two girls, all of them in hysterics as they stumble down the street. I just shake my head. He certainly has _broadened_ his horizons lately. I hope he's being careful. I know he's trying to forget the horrors we see all the time, too, but I'm just worried that someone will take him for a ride at some point. Or he'll wind up fathering a child in every port.

That's definitely one of those things I'm not telling Monica. There's no need to paint that sort of picture for her. But to say that his optimism has faded a bit would be an understatement. It's tough to romanticize war when you're in the middle of the ocean praying that you don't get bombed, or you're trying to stealthily attack another ship. What's worse is that it seems that the reports of attacks on Jews were all too true. The stories we've heard about what's going on in places in Germany…it's enough to keep most of us awake for days on end.

I carefully put the opened letters under my leg and open the last one, dated in July.

_Dear Chandler,_

She does that to tease me; I don't start my letters to her with anything but her name. It's nice to know that even though we're thousands of miles apart, we can still poke fun at each other.

_It's hot. I know that's not much of a surprise given that it's the middle of July, but this might be the hottest one on record. I spend my days in a sweltering factory, too, and I can't help but wonder how long it will be before we all decide to strip down to our skivvies and work that way. _

I chuckle a little to myself; now _there's_ a mental image.

_It could be worse, I suppose. We start our day at six in the morning and we're usually done by three in the afternoon at the latest. That means I have the rest of the day to stop feeling like I'm melting before it's time to start all over again. But still…it's honest work and I don't have to worry about gropers. The hours usually pass quickly._

_Chandler, it really is beautiful here. Your mother has been so generous and kind to me, and being near her helps me feel a little closer to you. I don't know if she'd admit it, but I think she likes having me around, too._

Right there; it feels like she's leaving something out, or she wants to say more. I don't know why I get that feeling.

_She told me she's considering having the pool cleaned and opening it again next summer. I can't even imagine how hard that is for her, but she's so brave to even think about it. I imagine it can't be easy for you to hear, either. I think your mother is very slowly coming back from all that. She smiles a lot more now, and she doesn't leave to stay with friends nearly as often._

Somehow, in just a very short amount of time, Monica's managed to become closer to my mother than I ever have been. I would be jealous, but it's actually just great to know that they get along so well. I'm sure it's incredibly arrogant of me to even think it, but maybe having each other to lean on right now is just what they need.

But…the pool. Even from the other side of the world, that's hard to imagine. It gives me goosebumps just thinking about it, but knowing it's something my mother can consider is pretty big, and I'm really glad that she's getting past that horrible time in our lives. It's been eight years; maybe I should try to do that, too. I know my father wouldn't want us to hold onto that forever.

_She misses you, Chandler. I don't know if she lets you know that, but she's worried about you. She loves your letters, though. Her entire face lights up when she hears from you. It's been so wonderful to have her through all this, you know? She's been telling me stories about your childhood—_

Oh, heaven help me, I don't even want to imagine what stories the woman could be filling Monica's head with. Maybe the two of them living together isn't the best of ideas.

_and showing me your baby pictures. You were the sweetest little baby, honey, though you seemed to have quite an aversion to clothing back then._

I feel myself blushing, though I'm not sure why. It's not as if she hasn't seen me naked, but there's something a little embarrassing about Monica seeing me as a silly little baby.

_I hope you don't mind, but I've taken over your bedroom. I don't think I told you that, but I find it comforting. Even more so when I think about how this was the first place we…well, you know. You were there. I haven't changed too much of it, though._

_Nothing much has changed around here lately. The world goes on turning, the sun comes up every morning and sets every night. They keep saying the economy is starting to turn around, and I suppose that's true. There are more jobs now, and it seems as if a new factory opens every week. I think I've told you that most of my coworkers are women. Sometimes, it feels as if every man in the world has been sent off to war. So many of the women I work with…well, far too many of them have gotten bad news about their husbands and sons. It's heartbreaking. They come and deliver these horrible letters right in the middle of the day. I never, EVER want to get a letter like that about you. Please promise me you're taking care of yourself. Please. I know you can only do so much, but I need you to come home to me, Chandler. _We_ need you. _

_I love you. I don't know if I can express to you just how much, but it's more and more every day. I can't wait to grow old with you._

My eyes grow watery with that thought. I want it so much, but I can't let myself think about it. Not for very long, at least. The best I can really do is think about living through tomorrow. One day at a time.

Damn it, I miss this woman. Most of our relationship has been spent apart. It's getting harder and harder to remember her voice, or how soft her skin is, or the little noises she makes when she kisses me. Sometimes at night, though, I swear I can hear her whispering my name. It's so clear and feels so real, and it's easy to let myself believe that those are the moments when she's thinking about me the most.

_Please, please, PLEASE be careful. Please. I want you to take me skating in Central Park again. And I want us to go to the beach again. I want to do silly things like lay in the grass with you and watch shooting stars. I want to play in the snow and thaw out in front of a fire. I want everything, and I want it with you._

_I love you so much, Chandler. So much. When you get home, we're getting married and you're stuck with me forever._

Fine by me. I can't wait for that.

_I wish I had something more eloquent to say, but I love you. Always._

_Yours,  
>Monica<em>

My chin drops to my chest and I cover my eyes with my free hand. I close my eyes tightly, fighting off tears. I miss her so much. Everything hurts.

"Hey, buddy!"

I feel a clap on my back as someone plunks down beside me. I rub my forehead and blink a few times before looking up. Joey. I met him when I got to the boat all those months ago. He's a good guy, and we took an immediate shine to each other. He doesn't seem to mind Ross, either, for the most part, though their relationship is mostly based on vague insults. "Hey."

"Whatsa matter?" he asks, immediately looking concerned.

"Oh. Nothing. Just…letters."

"From your girl?"

"Yeah."

"Everything okay back home?"

I chuckle a little, though I don't know why. "Sure. I just miss her."

He smacks my arm, making me flinch. "Hey, let me see her picture again."

I make a face at him. "I don't think so. You seem to like looking at her an awful lot."

"Aw, c'mon, it's just _looking_." Reluctantly, I reach inside one of the envelopes where I've stuffed the photos for safekeeping and pull out the few that I have of Monica—one of the four of us at the beach a couple of years ago, one of her on her eighteenth birthday, and one from just after we got engaged. They're a little faded and crumpled from me looking at them so often, but I hand them over. I watch as he grins, nodding his approval, and I roll my eyes. Joey just likes women.

Joey's an interesting character; he's first generation American, and his parents came to the US just before they got married. One would think their sympathies would lie with Italy and the Axis powers, and that, if their only son were to go off to war, they'd want him on that side. This was not the case. His parents came to this country and took their citizenship test and are full-fledged members now. They consider themselves to be American and wanted Joey on "the side of justice." It's fascinating to me how these people—and not just Joey's parents, but any of the immigrants that make it to America—feel such instant pride and dedication to a country they've been a part of for so little time. Born there or not, it seems as if once they step foot on American soil, they're members for life, and their loyalties instantly lie there.

"Your arm still sore?" he asks suddenly, pulling me out of my thoughts, and I realize I'm rubbing my shoulder again.

"Nah, it just itches a little."

"Let me see."

"I'm fine, man."

"You probably did something wrong; let me see."

I sigh in exasperation. "How could I have possibly done something wrong?"

He grabs my arm, pulling up my sleeve. He squints at my arm thoughtfully for a few moments before releasing me. "No, I guess it's healing all right."

"Told you," I answer, running my fingers carefully over the delicate lines on my arm that spell out "Monica." A few weeks ago when we had a few hours leave, some of us got to talking. Naturally, we started talking about our girls and how much we missed them. A few beers in and most of us decided that getting their names tattooed on our arms was a swell idea. Personally, I don't regret it. I'm sure it won't thrill Monica when she sees it, but if I go down…I want whoever finds me to know that I belonged to her, even if it was just a short while.

Joey gives me a half smile and claps me on the back again, a little gentler this time. He doesn't have a girlfriend or wife back home, but somehow, he seems to get just how much I miss her.

I smile back just a little and turn back to the water, rubbing the tiny raised marks on my shoulder again, tracing her name.

* * *

><p>*AN…send out good thoughts for me today, peoples. I have an assessment today that will probably be horrible, but positive vibes are always welcome.


	26. Chapter 26

December, 1943

Monica

Solemnly, I stare out across the snow-covered world from my window, the town beyond the house glittering like tiny diamonds. The beauty of it all is lost on me right now.

The rocking chair moves back and forth slowly, lulling me into a daze. It's the middle of the night; I have to be up for work in a few hours.

Sleep doesn't come easy.

I pull the blanket around me tighter, watching the moon bounce off the snow, so bright it's almost painful.

It's been two years since the first time I told Chandler I love him. That means it's been almost a year and eleven months since we got engaged, and a year and ten months since I last saw him.

I chuckle a little mirthlessly. Talk about a whirlwind.

So much of it doesn't seem real now. Could I really have been so naïve back then? It's hard to believe there was ever a time when I was so innocent that I could let myself believe that falling in love in the middle of a war was a good idea.

As if I could have helped that. I fell in love with him—it happens. The heart doesn't give a damn what's going on with the world around it, it just wants what it wants.

All this time and it still wants Chandler.

I'm probably still a little naïve to tell the truth. It's a trait I share with my brother—wide-eyed naiveté and endless optimism. Maybe I'm not as optimistic as Ross, but I still somehow believe that my loved ones are going to come out of all this in one piece.

I _have_ to believe it.

I sniffle, wiping a tear away with my arm, before I realize the room has gone silent again. Slowly, I maneuver myself to my feet, trying to keep the warm blanket around my body as I head over to the dusty old record player on Chandler's bookshelf. I fiddle with the arm for a few moments before I hear a few seconds of crackling as the record starts over.

I shuffle back to the rocking chair and sit down slowly, adjusting myself into as comfortable a position as I can manage. A few moments later, Bing Crosby sings to me softly, telling about the white Christmas he's dreaming of, and my eyes fill with tears.

"Another Christmas," I whisper, my voice choked, and I sigh a little.

Every time. I've been listening to this damned song all night, and each time, it makes me want to weep.

It shouldn't. Officially, I don't celebrate Christmas. The holiday seems to mean a lot to Nora, though, so I go along with it, and she's always willing to help with Hanukkah. Unfortunately, I have to keep that particular observation to myself even more right now.

Maybe it was my imagination, but it felt like animosity toward Jews was growing stronger by the day before I left the city. Even walking home with Phoebe, I felt edgy, nervous, always scared that someone would know what I was just by looking at me.

I can't even imagine how my brother's faring right now.

I may not work at the Lounge anymore, but I'm still in touch with Phoebe. She gives me updates any time she hears something about what's going on in Europe or Japan, and she seemed completely horrified by the reports of what was happening to Jews, particularly in Germany.

It gives me chills just thinking about it.

Out here, things feel different, though I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because the people aren't so close together, and the pace of life doesn't feel so intense. I go to work and I see people who look like me—dark hair and features, looking uncomfortable with the prayers others say before eating a meal, the occasional Yiddish word slipping out, but none of us mention it. If anyone notices these little slips we make, they certainly don't acknowledge them—I think the expression is "plausible deniability." If no one says anything out loud, then it's not real. We're all just women trying to make it through each day, trying to find a way to support our families and ourselves. It's the only thing that matters.

With a sigh, my head falls back against the back of the chair. Part of me feels tired—more tired than I've ever felt in my life—but crawling into bed would be pointless. Being in bed just makes it worse most of the time, especially when it's a bed I shared with him.

"_Monica, you have to get out of bed."_

_Slowly, I blink my eyes, Phoebe's concerned face coming in to view. "Huh?"_

"_Or if you're going to lie in bed, you should at least be getting some sleep."_

"_Okay," I mumble, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders. "Are you done lecturing me?"_

_She sighs and crawls onto the bed with me, her face suddenly right in front of mine. "I'm sorry; it just seemed like the sort of thing I should say."_

_I want to laugh, but tears fill my eyes instead. Her arm immediately goes out, pulling me to her. I rest my head on her shoulder as tears drip down my cheeks, my body too exhausted to sob._

"_It's been over a month," she says softly, stroking my back. "I'm just worried about you. You barely make it to work most nights. You don't sleep. You don't even eat. You look like a rail. Do you think Chandler or Ross would want you to live like this?"_

"_I can't eat," I answer simply. "Not hungry." I have no appetite; I haven't found a bit of food in the last month that has appealed to me in the slightest, and when I _do_ try to eat, it just comes right back out. I realize that's probably my stomach's response to suddenly having nourishment after going for such a long stretch without, but my options are either to not eat, or to eat even though I don't feel hungry and don't even care if I do eat, and get sick for my troubles. I'm not adjusting well to life without my brother and my fiancée._

"_You have to try," she whispers. "You're not gonna last if you don't try. I brought you some crackers. They're not much, but they're bland enough you should be able to keep them down."_

"_What does it matter?"_

"_It matters because they're both still alive, and as much as you need them, I think they need you more. They need you to write to them. They need you to live, too."_

"_Okay," I mumble again, and Phoebe sighs. She hands me a cracker and I actually nibble at it for a while; she watches me a like a hawk to make sure that I don't just give up on it, stroking my hair back from my face as I cry into her shoulder once more._

Sleep usually only comes to me after I've been awake for so many hours that my body nearly collapses from exhaustion, forcing me to rest for just a little while. That's about all I get at a stretch most days.

Nora says I'm young and can handle a little sleep deprivation, but she looks worried a lot, too. We've come to rely on each other a lot over the last couple of years, our love for her son binding us together in ways I never could have expected. I have to admit…it's been nice. Being around her is what I imagine having a mother is like. She's doted on me when I've been sick, bringing me soup in bed, even going as far to read to me on a couple of occasions. She asks me about my day and we talk about Chandler and she lets me cuddle into her side when I miss him so much I feel like I'm falling apart. I think she likes having me around, too; she's said that Chandler being away has brought out her nurturing side, and she wants to be able to take care of someone.

It's possibly not the healthiest of relationships, but it helps keep me going every day.

I shift again, trying to find a comfortable position in the hard, wooden chair, and grab Chandler's latest letter off the windowsill. I've already read it a dozen times, the ink is already smudged from my tears, but I need to feel close to him again, even if it's just for a few moments.

_Monica,_

_I can't believe it's Thanksgiving again. Sure as hell doesn't feel like it, does it? Of course, we're the only ones who celebrate it, and it's not much of a celebration at that. We have some food, and technically, there's a roof over our heads, so I suppose we have more to be grateful for than some. The time of year gets solemn for everyone, though. All the guys get contemplative and introspective, thinking about their wives and children and families. It's hard enough being away from you—I can't imagine knowing I'd left you behind with our child. How can these men bear it? How are their thoughts not consumed at every moment, wondering what they're missing out on?_

That makes my insides twist painfully; there are several women at work who have young children now, children that were only babies when their husbands left; fathers who have missed out on first words and first steps, who can't see their children grow and learn, some of whom will never see their children ever again. It kills me.

_I can't believe I gave up my one chance to spend this day with you. I was such an idiot. I was so scared you were going to hate me for how I felt about you that I hid. I ran away. I could kick myself. If I could change it all, I would. I wouldn't care about the possibility of you rejecting me and I would just spend this day with you, telling you how thankful I am to have you in my life, how much better you make everything. Of course, if I'd bothered to come to you, I would have known much sooner that my feelings weren't one-sided, that you loved me, too. It's only a matter of a few weeks, but it's time we could have spent together._

_I don't know if I ever told you this, but I still followed you home then. I couldn't bear the thought of you doing that alone every night, so I followed at a distance, just like I did in the beginning. It was childish on my part, and if anything had happened to you, I would have been by your side in an instant, but I couldn't completely stay away from you. I don't think I'd ever be able to do that._

Of course he did—I should have known he never would have let me walk alone, especially not with the way he felt about me at that point. I always wondered about that, but after we started dating each other, it never occurred to me to ask; at that point, we were together and that was all that mattered.

_The holidays are coming._

I appreciate that he doesn't just say "Christmas," but also that he knows enough to not mention Hanukkah specifically.

_As hard as it is to be away from you, this time of year is worse. I'm sure I don't have to remind of you what happened on Christmas Night, 1941. You were there. I'm sure it was special for you, too._

With a watery sigh, I turn my head, looking at the bed behind me. That beautiful, wonderful bed where Chandler made love to me for the first time. That bed where I changed in so many different ways, and where I fell even more in love with him. Everything changed that night, and I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. I can't imagine him going off to war and not knowing him the way I do.

_I can't wait to discover you again, my love. I can't wait to talk to you, to run my hands over you, to feel your body against mine, to see how much you've changed and just how much you've stayed the same. I just want to kiss you again._

That's all I want, too. His lips on mine, his body near me, protecting me, keeping me safe and warm, and to be able to do the same for him.

_You're everything, Monica. I know I say that a lot, but it's only because I mean it. You're my favorite person in the whole world. You're the love of my life. I feel like something that's been broke in half without you around. I can't wait to feel whole again. I need to feel whole. _

_I need you._

_I love you.  
>Chandler.<em>

I take a few deep breaths, closing my eyes tightly, willing myself not to cry again. I can't keep doing this to myself. I can't agonize over him not being here, not all the time. I'm not going to "move on" with my life because that's not even a remote possibility, but I have to _try_ to feel something other than lost. Even Chandler's mother manages to have good spirits from time to time. I need to try to remember how happy he makes me instead of how sad I am without him.

I realize the record's spinning quietly, the song finished once again, probably for some time now. I struggle to my feet and move the arm of the player, the record coming to a stop, humming along to music only I can hear. I gently close the lid and slide carefully into bed, pulling the blankets around me to ward off the chill.

I stare out the window, sleep still out of my grasp, and watch the snow flutter quietly to the ground, and very softly, I begin to sing. "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas just like the ones I used to know. Where the treetops glisten and children listen to hear sleigh bells in the snow…"

A tear makes its way down my face and I curl my body as tightly as I can. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll try to be strong and think about the good times we had.

Tonight, I just can't.


	27. Chapter 27

February, 1944

Chandler

I keep my cup of coffee tight to my chest and hold my face over the steam, taking in as much heat as I can. The night is clear and frigid, and I have no idea where we are. I don't know if any of us know where we are, and maybe that's the point. I can see a rocky coast line not too far off in the distance, but I have no way of identifying it, if we're welcome here or if we're simply waiting.

Most people are below decks right now, playing cards or sleeping. I don't know that I can blame them—the temperature dockside has to be somewhere around zero—but I'm far too antsy to do either right now.

God, I miss Monica. And not just in the usual, aching way I miss her, but it occurred to me that it's been two years since I had sex. _Two years_. There's a part of me that can't believe I held out this long, either. The old Chandler…well, this wouldn't have been an issue for that guy.

It's not that I haven't had the opportunity; it seems to be a universal fact that where there are horny men, there are horny women. Every guy I know has the chance to get laid twice a night any time we're in port, and I think most take advantage of that opportunity regardless of who's waiting for them back home. They say their wives will understand that they have needs.

Well, I have needs, too, but I don't think Monica would understand at all if I were to sleep with another woman. Honestly, though, I know from previous experience that these women won't do anything for me. There might be a few moments where I forget where I am or what I'm doing, but it's fleeting. That's how it felt all those years ago when I was screwing up my life, so I don't see that it would be any better now, especially now that I've known perfection. No one can hold a candle to my girl.

So, I ache. I live with this feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me how much I need this release and contact and I try not to think too much about Monica. According to my bunkmates, I've taken to moaning her name when I sleep, so I try to avoid that when I can. The cold night air seems to have somewhat of a soothing effect on my body, so as long as I freeze myself to the point of pain, I'm usually good for a few hours.

This is probably not the healthiest way to live.

Again, finding some girly in one of the bars would be the easier thing to do, though I can't honestly say if the tension relieved would actually be significant.

I doesn't help that her letters feel like they're getting a bit more provocative lately. It could be wishful thinking on my part and the fact that if I don't see her soon I'll explode, but it's possible she misses me that way, too. The time we had to be intimate was brief, but it sure as hell was powerful.

I reach into the pocket of my pea coat and pull out the latest letter. I opened it a few hours ago, but this is the first chance I've had to be alone with her words.

I flex my cold fingers for a moment, the tips of my gloves cut off so actually feel the things I need to feel and shake out the paper.

_Dear Chandler,_

_I'm so tired of the winter. It feels like the entire world is frozen. There's nothing but snow as far as the eye can see—day in and day out, snow. It's beautiful to look at, but when I have to trudge through it every day to get to work, it gets old. I know I shouldn't complain, but it takes almost an hour to get to work on a snowy day, so I'm nearly frozen all the way through when I get there. When we get inside, the building is just as cold. Within an hour, it's sweltering and most of us are peeling off layers just so we don't melt, and then we have to go back out to the cold at the end of the day. It's a wonder more people haven't caught pneumonia, honestly._

_But I've been here nearly two years, so it can't be all bad, obviously. Give me a few months and I'll be complaining about the heat. There's no making me happy._

_But…this is why you should be home. I need someone to keep me warm at night, or to wrap me in a blanket when I get home from work. Or even better, wrap up in a blanket with me. You have beautiful fireplaces here, Chandler—I'm sure we could make good use of at least one of them._

_Something else I've discovered the joys of while living at your mother's house—long, hot baths. This is not a luxury I've had for a very long time, but now…it's almost encouraged. It's just what the doctor ordered after a long day at work or hours spent in the snow. I think the tubs here are big enough for two people._

Despite the cold, my body reacts to her words. It's not at all difficult to imagine this beautiful woman in one of the claw foot tubs, the room steamy…

I close my eyes as a shudder works through my body. I take a few deep breaths and swallow heavily before I'm able to go back to her letter.

_Did you know that best way to keep warm is to crawl naked under a blanket with somebody else who is already naked?_

She's killing me. Thousands of miles away and she's killing me. And it can't just be my imagination; she's coming on to me. She must be as horny as I am. We did go at it pretty hot and heavy for a little while. Honestly, we probably still would be if I were at home. I don't think being married to her or being around her all the time would make me want her less.

_I lie in bed and talk to you at night. I'm sure that sounds dumb, but it makes me feel connected to you. I like to pretend that you can hear me and that we're just talking about our boring, humdrum little lives. Though honestly, I more often pretend that you're next to me, even going so far as to hold a pillow, trying to make myself believe it's you. I feel you there so strongly sometimes that I swear I can hear your voice. It's stupid of me, but being in your old room like this, I feel surrounded by you. I can feel you everywhere, and it's both the biggest comfort and the biggest heartbreak._

_I dream about you. Every night I dream about you. Usually, it's nothing extraordinary; we just go about our lives. Just you and me and anyone else who comes along. It's so simple and basic and lovely that it hurts worse than almost anything else every time I wake up. But sometimes…sometimes my dreams are a little different. Sometimes I dream about our first night together. Sometimes I dream about the night we got engaged. Mostly, I dream about nights that have yet to come. I dream about what it will be like when you come home, and I dream about all those things in Phoebe's books that we haven't gotten to do yet. What do you think we should do first?_

I stop again, my hands shaking, though this time not from the cold. All I want to do is turn this Godforsaken boat around and get to her.

I take a moment, though, running my fingers over "anyone else who comes along." She wants my baby. I don't know why I'm so focused on having children with her. I never used to be terribly concerned about having children at all, but since Monica, it's constantly running through my head. Monica with a pregnant belly, Monica holding our baby, taking our kids to the beach and Coney Island…it's bittersweet, but the thought of it makes me unbelievably happy.

I feel tears prickle the corners of my eyes and give myself a shake, snapping out of it. Instead, I make myself focus on what I'm going to do to her next time I see her. First, I'm going to kiss her senseless. That's a given. I'm going to kiss her until we can't breathe. Then, I'm going to get her alone and make up for lost time. I don't want to be able to walk for a week. Her either, if I'm being honest. And then we'll get married. Maybe that's a little out of order for some people, but I don't care. I think that'll be the only order we can manage at that point. If I can even hold out long enough to get her some place private, I'll be shocked.

_I could barely get through my day at the base; I was so eager to see Monica again that I could hardly focus on anything else. Realistically, I know it'll probably be a while before I get to be alone with her like we were last night, but the need to be close to her has been unreal._

_Until I saw the haunted look on her face at the Lounge tonight. My first thought was that she had regrets, that she was going to break things off with me. I was scared that I'd hurt her or had done something so horribly wrong that she'd never be able to forgive me. _

_I suppose the panic on my face must have been obvious because she squeezed my hand reassuringly as I followed her to a table. Before I could ask her what was happening, she switched into work-Monica and pretended everything was all right._

_Now, I'm tapping my fingers on the edge of the bar as I wait for her to finish up. Ross keeps giving me odd looks, but I don't know what to say to him to make him understand that something has happened to his sister. Considering he's Monica's brother, he's often blissfully unaware of what's going on in her world. I suppose that has its advantages, though._

_She walks out of the kitchen, coat bundled around her; she gives me a look before heading to the front door, squeezing past the crowd of people milling about. Ross looks at me in confusion, but I barely spare him a glance as I hurry after her._

_I find her right outside the door; she immediately wraps her arms around my waist, pressing her head against my chest._

"_I moved out of Grandma's," she whispers, and my body goes rigid with shock._

"_You did what?"_

_She looks up at me, her face wet with tears, her eyes so lost and distraught that I don't know what to do. "I left Grandma's."_

"_Honey…why?"_

_She looks down, sniffling, and I reach into the pocket inside my coat, pulling out a handkerchief. She presses it to her face as I stroke her hair, trying to calm her just a little._

"_She caught me coming in this morning," she chokes out and I close my eyes, letting out a long, deep breath._

"_Oh, Monica."_

"_I don't know why she was up. I don't know if she woke up in the middle of the night and saw that I'd never come home, I just don't know. It doesn't matter. But…" She looks over her shoulder to see if Ross has come out yet, but he must be inside waiting for Phoebe. "She said I was tainted and fallen and that I was a disgusting, evil girl and first she said that didn't want me to see you anymore, and then she didn't want me living under her roof and…and…" She pauses, sobbing for a few seconds. "And she hit me and grabbed my arm and…I left."_

_I pull Monica closer to me, trying to comfort her even as my blood boils. "I'll kill her," I say through clenched teeth. _

"_Chandler…" _

"_I have to say _something_! She has no right to treat you like that. She's always treated you like a second-class citizen and I can't handle it anymore."_

"_It doesn't matter," she tells me, though her tears belie her words. It matters to her a whole lot what her grandmother thinks. _

"_Where are you going to go?"_

"_Phoebe's letting me stay with her for now."_

_I breathe a sigh of relief—at least she's not homeless. "Monica, I am so, _so_ sorry."_

"_For what?"_

"_This is all my fault. I dragged you out to my mother's—"_

"_You hardly dragged me," she corrects, but I keep talking._

"_I convinced you to spend the night with me—"_

_She looks up at me, startled. "'Convinced' me? We decided to do that _together_. You didn't have to convince me of anything. I don't regret it, Chandler. Not for a moment. Last night was the best, most perfect night of my life and a lot of that is because _we_ decided that it was the right thing for us to do. You're not at fault, and I don't blame you for any of this."_

"_But, Monica," I whisper, my heart clenching at the pain on her face. "Your grandmother did and said some truly awful things—"_

"_She would have said horrible things to me no matter what. She always has. Maybe it's not ideal and I definitely would not have chosen for it to happen this way, but at least I don't have to live with her anymore."_

"_Is Phoebe's place big enough for the both of you?"_

_She shrugs, stepping closer to me once more. "It's big enough. We had to go out and find something for me to sleep on, but for now…I almost feel better. Part of me—a big part of me—feels horrible about this and it hurts just to think about that my own grandmother all but called me a whore, but I know that I don't have to go home to her, and it feels as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders."_

_I pull her tight to me, resting my cheek on top of her head. The fact that she doesn't blame me doesn't stop me from feeling terrible about this whole situation. All I want to do is make it right._

"_See? I told you they'd be waiting for us."_

_I look up at the sound of Phoebe's voice and see Ross rolling his eyes at her. Monica sniffles and wipes her eyes, and of all times, this is the moment her brother notices her distress. _

"_Mon? Are you all right?" She nods, but he puts his hand on her shoulder, gently turning her to face him. "What's going on?" He looks up at me, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "What did you do to her?"_

_My eyes grow wide and I hold up my hands in innocence. Monica puts her hand on my chest, subtly grabbing the front of my uniform to keep me from backing away._

"_I moved out of Grandma's," she tells him, and his mouth drops open. _

"_What? But why?"_

_She looks up at me, and I put my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. Whatever she wants to tell him is fine with me. "She told me that I wasn't allowed to see Chandler anymore."_

_Ross tilts his head, looking back and forth between me, Phoebe, and his sister. "So? You're eighteen; she can't tell you what to do."_

"_There was a lot of other stuff," she says softly, and I rub her back reassuringly. "She called me names and…" Her voice trails off, looking over at Phoebe, who just gives her a sympathetic half-smile. "It's been bad for a long time, Ross. I needed to get out. I'm going to stay with Phoebe for a while."_

_His eyes go wide. "_You're_ going to be _her_ roommate?"_

_Phoebe steps forward, linking her arm through Ross's. "I'll take good care of her, I promise."_

_He looks at all of us again, and I'm sure the vibe is palpable. "What am I missing?"_

_Monica leans her head against my chest again, sighing shakily, and Phoebe starts to drag Ross down the street. "Come on. I'll show you where she's gonna live from now on."_

_I watch the two of them head down the sidewalk before gently taking Monica's face in my hands. "Hey. You all right?"_

_She shrugs, her eyes filling with tears again. "No. But I think I will be."_

_I pull her into my arms, letting her sob against my chest for as long as she needs. "My brave girl," I whisper into her hair. "My brave, brave girl."_

"What're you doing up here?"

I'm startled out of my thoughts by Ross's voice. I smile at him weakly and wave the letter at him. "Just thinking about your sister."

"Oh," he answers, quiet for a while as he comes to stand next to me. "You really love her, don't you?"

I look at him slowly, confused. "…Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Good."

I stare at him for a few moments before I dump my cold coffee over the side of the boat. "What, you don't believe me?"

He shrugs, giving me a small smile. "It's just that everything seemed so rushed between you two, you know? Yeah, sure, you _said_ you love her, but people say things all the time. And it's not that I didn't believe you care for her…"

"You just didn't know if I meant it for forever," I finish for him. "Look, Ross…maybe I went about it all in the wrong way, and if your father were alive, I would have gone to him and asked his permission to marry her. Maybe I should have gone to you, I don't know. But Monica decides what Monica wants; you know that as well as I. Whether or not someone gives their blessing wouldn't stop her from doing what she felt to be the right thing. It's just one of the things that's so great about her. But I do love her. I love her so much it's scary. I want to spend my life with her. I want to grow old with her. I know that's probably weird for you because she's your sister but…I love her. I promise you _and_ her, if we make it out of this alive, that I'll take care of her for the rest of my life."

"All right, all right. Calm down. I believe you." He gives me a little shove and I fold up her letter for now, putting it back in my pocket. "I guess if you're willing to get her name tattooed on your arm, you must at least like her."

I actually burst out laughing. "Yeah; she's all right."

"Hey, Chan!" I turn and see Joey coming up behind us. He looks at Ross and gives him a little nod. "Hey."

Ross rolls his eyes in response. "Hey."

These two don't seem to particularly care for each other. Joey thinks Ross is kind of a stick in the mud, and Ross thinks Joey's an idiot, but they manage to mostly get along, even if it means they all but avoid actually conversing with each other, talking directly to me instead.

"It's freezing up here, man. What're you doing?" he asks, shivering and rubbing his arms for emphasis.

"I was reading a letter from Monica."

"Oh. Well, you should come back downstairs. Everybody's sittin' around talkin' 'bout the hottest girl they've bagged." I cringe and look over at Ross, who looks less than thrilled with that prospect; Joey waves him away, dismissing him. "He doesn't count; we've all seen the kinda girls he fools around with."

"Uhh," I say quickly, hoping to avoid a fight. "I think I'll pass."

"Why? I've seen pictures of Monica—"

"Please don't finish that sentence," Ross interrupts, a grimace on his face.

"What's with him?" Joey asks me, annoyance edging into his voice.

"Monica's his sister," I remind him.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, I've told you that."

"Sure, but I didn't realize you meant _this_ Ross. I mean, she's so gorgeous. I mean, like, really, _really_ gorgeous…and he's…"

"Thanks," Ross deadpans, turning to look at me. "Nice friend you got there."

I hold my hands up in surrender and the boat rocks beneath my feet, all of us grabbing onto the rails for support.

"What the hell was that?" Joey asks as we stare at each other. An instant later the boat rocks again, violently this time. The air fills with a cacophony of sounds—bullets, small booms, and the alarm of the ship blaring, telling everyone to get to their stations. I see Ross's mouth move but I can't make out his words. I shove him, trying to push him where he needs to go, and the floor drops out from under me. For a few moments, I feel completely weightless until I drop to the deck, landing hard on my knees.

"Come on!" I yell as loudly as I can, trying to stay low as I run, the deck around me suddenly full of men, all scrambling to get to where they need to be. I look over my shoulder, trying to find my friend. "Joey!"

He's pulling himself to his feet as the boat rocks, his eyes wide with terror. All of the noises around us seem to blur together; nothing makes sense.

I hear a high-pitched whistling, the sound somehow louder than everything else, and the sky lights up, the boat jerking to one side. I see Joey go flying through the air and the world around me slows down. I freeze, not knowing what to do as I see him land against the deck with a thud, his body still. I take a few steps toward him and the world returns to its regular speed. "_Joey!_"

Someone grabs my arm, pulling me the other way, and I struggle against him. "Let me go! Joey!"

"We have to go, Bing!"

I take a last look at my friend on the deck, lying there as if he's asleep, before I turn and start running with everyone else. The boat continues to rock, debris flying everywhere, the noise deafening.

People are scattered everywhere. Men I spoke to just a few hours ago are in heaps on the ground like ragdolls.

I hear another wave of gunfire and duck down, trying to keep out of sight, all of us trying to make it to our posts, dodging around our fallen brothers.

I skid to a halt and turn around, running back, ignoring the shouts of my name. I move as carefully as I can, pushing back the guilt as I ignore people I know, good men, brave me.

"Ross!" I yell toward a familiar figure slumped against a wall, hoping like hell I'm imagining things.

I drop to my knees, my breath catching in my throat at the site of my friend. I grab his shoulders, shaking him. "Ross! Can you hear me? _Ross_!" My gut twists painfully—not Ross, too. "Come _on_, Ross, open your eyes."

He coughs suddenly, his shoulders shaking, and I breathe a quick sigh of relief before I pull at his arm. "Ca…can't…can't get up."

I look down at him, checking him out as quickly as I can—everything looks like it's in place. "I..don't…uh…" My mind has gone blank, all of my training out the window as I stare at my best friend. He groans and flinches, and I see blood seeping out of…somewhere. Suddenly it's everywhere. "No! Don't you…" I grab his arm, ignoring his moan of pain and pull him over my shoulders.

"Chandler," he says weakly, and the boat rocks again. I stumble, his body getting heavier as he starts to lose it.

"You don't get to die," I grunt. "Monica will kill me if you die." I give him a gentle shake as I try to move him to safety. "Did you hear me?" Silence from him. I duck into a doorway and carefully lower him to the floor.

Still nothing.

"Ross? C'mon, Ross, open your eyes."

He's still.

I grab his shoulders, shaking him, and realize my hands are covered in blood.

His blood.

"Ross!"

His head lolls to one side.

I think I'm going to be sick.

Not him.

"_ROSS_!"


	28. Chapter 28

May, 1944

Monica

I wring my hands anxiously, occasionally tugging at my engagement ring, as I stand by the mailbox.

Waiting.

It feels like all I do lately is wait.

I'm sure the postman is tired of seeing me day after day, but I don't care. I haven't heard from Chandler or Ross in over two months. Nora hasn't heard from Chandler, either. She's just as anxious as I am to hear something, almost anything by this point.

We haven't gotten a letter from the Navy about him, at least there's that. I checked with my grandmother, and she hasn't gotten anything about Ross, either.

The last time I got a letter from either of them was around Valentine's Day—they were already several weeks old by then, but at least it was something. The first few weeks I didn't hear from them, I didn't worry about it much. It's not that unusual for several weeks to pass with no news, and I know mail delivery to and from them can be spotty. After a month, though, fear started to gnaw at me. After that, I took to waiting for the mail each day, as if that would somehow bring news of some sort.

It hasn't worked so far, but every day I run home from work and wait, not willing to wait one extra moment just in case I get a letter.

I feel my hands start to shake and I wring them a little more violently. My stomach clenches and I try to ignore it. It always hurts lately.

I can't imagine anything good that would prevent either one of them from writing me. _Something_ must have happened. Something I can't even imagine. Something I don't want to imagine.

I take a couple of deep breaths, but it doesn't help. I go through this same thing every day, and nothing lessens my anxiety. I'm anxious when I wait for a letter, and I'm anxious when it doesn't show up. I just need to hear _something_.

My hands cramp and I flex my fingers a few times, shaking them out. I feel my ring slide up to my knuckle and immediately ball up my fingers again. I adjust it carefully, but it slips to one side anyway. My fingers are almost too narrow for it now.

I've done little else lately except lose weight; eating has, once again, become almost a nonissue for me. I have no appetite. It's hard enough to motivate myself to do much of anything when I'm getting mail regularly, but now, with all this silence…there's no room for anything. Nora keeps telling me that I look like a broom handle, but there's nothing I can do about it.

Unfortunately, my engagement ring always feels like it's on the verge of falling off me, so I tend to keep it on the chain around my neck more often than not. I don't know how I'd fare if I lost this, too.

Not _too_, I correct myself. I haven't lost Chandler or Ross yet. I don't know anything for sure.

I look down at my hands, adjusting the diamond with my thumb, the early spring sunshine making it sparkle. I can't believe we've been engaged for two years. We hadn't even been engaged a month before he was shipped off, and now it's been over two years.

I feel like such a dummy, though. He wanted to get married before he left and I turned him down. I still can't believe I did that. I don't know why I thought it'd be better to wait until he came back and we could get married because it was a happy occasion. We were already engaged—what did it matter at that point if we were getting married because he'd received his orders? At least I'd be his wife.

Though, most of the people around here already think that's the case. It was just easier.

Truthfully, when it comes down to it, I want our wedding day to be happy. I want to feel like we're starting our life together instead of being scared that it's all about to end.

It's still hard to believe that it's been over two years, though.

"_So, how do you want to tell them?"_

_I look up at Chandler, and he smiles down at me, wiggling his fingers against mine. I bite my lip as I smile, giving his hand a little squeeze. "I don't know. I haven't given it much thought."_

"_I can't believe you haven't told Phoebe yet," he says, looking a little incredulous. "How'd you manage it?"_

"_It's easy when you spend most of the day in bed with your fiancée, then sleep until it's nearly time to get ready for work. I put the ring on the chain before we ever left the apartment."_

_He rubs my fingers gently. "You're still not wearing it."_

"_Only because I didn't want Ross and Phoebe to see it before we told them. I want to be able to tell them together, not have one of them see the ring and start asking questions." I see our friends a few yards ahead of us and come to a stop, pulling my hand from his. "Hold on a second." I reach up and fumble with the clasp of my necklace for a few moments before he nudges me out of the way, taking over. I feel the gentle weight of my engagement ring disappear from around my neck and he makes sure my necklace is in place once more._

"_I get to do this again," he tells me as I turn to face him, his eyes sparkling. He takes my left hand and reverently slides the ring in place once more, and my heart starts beating wildly. Everything happened so fast last night that the first time he did this is a blur. Watching it happen now makes it feel almost real. Tears fill my eyes as I look up at him._

"_What's wrong?" he asks, his face crumpling a little as he runs his fingers gently over my cheek._

"_Happy," I whisper. "I'm happy."_

"_I can't believe you want to marry a schmuck like me."_

_I shake my head at him, my grin widening. "You're not a schmuck, but good job using it correctly." I take his face gently in my hands. "You're a fast learner."_

_He leans down and kisses me, his lips cold on mine for a few moments. His arms go around my waist, pulling me closer, and we hear Phoebe clearing her throat loudly. Reluctantly, I pull away from Chandler, both of us turning our heads to her. "You two planning on doing that all night?"_

_Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Chandler grinning suggestively, and Ross immediately looks disgusted. "C'mon, that's my sister!" I roll my eyes and give Chandler another quick kiss before taking his hand in mine again._

"_You need new gloves," he tells me as we lag behind the other two, and I sigh._

"_I know. And when money falls out of the sky, I'll get right on it. Besides, I have your hands to keep me warm."_

"_I'll buy you some gloves."_

"_Chandler, you don't have to buy me things. I mean, you're very sweet, but it's not necessary."_

"_Is it a crime that I want to take care of you?" He sounds a little defensive, so I give his hand a squeeze._

"_Of course not. I just don't want you to think that's why I'm with you."_

_He comes to a stop, putting his hands on my hips. "Monica…I know that. You've never asked me for anything, and I know you like to prove that you can take care of yourself. But I love you, and I like to do things for you, and a pair of gloves is so very small in the grand scheme of things, and it's something you _need_. When we're married, none of this will matter because everything that's mine will be yours. So, you can argue with me as much as you want to, but one way or another, I'm going to make sure you get the things you need."_

_I take a couple of steps forward, putting my forehead on his chest. "I love you."_

"_I love you, too. That's why I want to take care of you. You're my future, and I want to make sure you're safe."_

_This man. He's so incredible, so sweet, so giving. Before I can answer, I hear a banging behind me; Phoebe's pounding on the diner window, making faces at us._

"_She sure knows how to kill a moment, doesn't she?" he whispers into my ear, and I shake my head a little as I laugh—only Phoebe. We make our way into the diner, the warmth of the small building a relief after the cold of the city sidewalk._

"_Make kissy-faces on your own time," she tells us as we make our way over to the booth, and Chandler crinkles his nose at her._

"_We sort of _are_ on our own time right now, Pheebs," he tells her, helping me to take off my coat._

"_Maybe not so much in public, though," Ross answers, sounding hopeful, and I sigh in exasperation. _

"_Ross, you're going to have to get over it," I inform him as I hang my coat next to the booth. "It's not that big of—"_

"_What is _THAT_?" Phoebe exclaims suddenly, grabbing the attention of all the other people in the diner. I jump, looking around wildly. _

"_What is what?"_

_She stretches over my brother to grab my hand, pulling it to her face. "This," she answers, gawking at my ring. "What is this?"_

"_Let me see," Ross says, angling his head to see what Phoebe's staring at before his mouth drops open. "Oh, my God." He looks up, staring at us in shock. "Oh, my God."_

_I look at Chandler and smile; he looks back at me bashfully, grinning like a little boy. "We're…" I look up at him again and he nods. I disentangle my hand and slide into the booth. "We're engaged."_

_Phoebe's mouth drops open, a smile pulling at her lips. "You're getting married?"_

"_We're getting married," Chandler confirms as he sits next to me, his arm going around my shoulders._

"_Oh, my God," she says, grabbing my hand once more. "This is unbelievable. Wait—you're not…" she looks over her shoulder before lowering her voice. "You're not knocked up, are you?"_

"_Phoebe," I answer in disgust; even _I_ know what that means. "Of course not."_

"_We're getting married because we love each other and want to spend the rest of our lives together," Chandler tells her, his arm around my shoulders pulling me just a little closer._

"_But…isn't this awfully fast?" Ross asks, looking bewildered. "I mean, you haven't known each other for that long. What's the rush?"_

"_We're not rushing," I answer. "We haven't decided on a date yet."_

"_When it's right, it's right," Chandler says, kissing the side of my head. "I know I want to be with her forever, so I asked if she wanted forever, too. I got lucky. Real lucky."_

_I turn to face him, our lips meeting gently, and I hear Ross let out an odd chuckle. I look over at him and, amazingly, he's grinning broadly. "This is really sort of great, actually."_

_I glance at Chandler, his mouth open in shock—I'm sure I look just as stunned. "It is?" he asks._

"_Well, yeah. I mean, sure, it's all happening quickly, but…I don't know. Monica's been so happy with you and she deserves that. If you're what makes her happy, that's all that matters."_

_My chest constricts for just a moment. "Thank you, Ross," I say softly, reaching across the table to squeeze his arm. He just winks at me and takes my hand in his, eying the ring._

"_Now, tell me how you managed to afford something like this?"_

"_Forget about that," Phoebe says. "Tell me how he proposed."_

_Chandler laughs, moving his fingers to my hair, and I lean against him to listen to him tell our friends about our amazing, magical night._

I'm startled from my thoughts when I hear rocks kicking in the distance. Relief floods over me as the mailman comes into view. I start wringing my hands again, my breath coming quickly as I try not to run to him. Every day I _have_ to hope is the day I get a letter. I have to.

He gives me his usual smile as he approaches me, handing off the day's mail and nodding as he passes. "Afternoon, ma'am."

I answer with a tight smile and a mumbled, "Thanks," as I flip through the envelopes, my hands shaking, praying that this time there's one for me.

Almost too late, I realize I recognize the handwriting on one and flip through again, a noise of relief ripping through me as I see his name. The rest of the mail drops to the ground as I tear open the letter; at this point, I don't even care what it says. He's all right. He's writing to me, so he must be all right.

My knees start to tremble as my body finally starts to unwind, and I stumble over to the porch, dropping onto the front steps.

_Monica,_

_I'm so, so, so sorry that I haven't written to you sooner. Things have been so messed up. I would start writing, but nothing would come out. No one's been able to pick up or drop off our mail for weeks now, either, so it hasn't mattered._

His writing is jerky, sloppy, and it makes my heart hammer. What on earth is going on over there?

_I can't give you too many details, but…there was an incident. I'm on a different ship now. The one I was on has been destroyed._

I close my eyes, forcing myself to swallow the bile I feel rising in my throat. He was attacked? That means Ross was attacked, too.

Oh, my God.

_I don't even know where to begin. Everything has been so horrible. My friend Joey was killed. It happened just like that. One second he was talking to me and the next…_

Tears fill my eyes as I cover my mouth with my hand. He's been talking about Joey for a couple of years now and how he couldn't wait for me to meet him. It sounded like he was a good friend to Chandler, and I can't imagine how much he's hurting right now.

_It was horrible. I can still see him lying there. He didn't look dead. I tried to get to him, but it was too dangerous. I have to make myself believe that it wouldn't have made a difference, that he was already gone. I hope like hell he was already gone. I can't stand the thought of him suffering, of him lying there all alone, scared and in pain_

The ink on the page blurs, and I realize it's not from me, despite my tears. My God. Poor, poor Chandler.

_I don't know where Ross is. Monica, I'm so sorry. I don't know where he is. He got hurt, too. I don't know how it happened. I thought he got to safety when I was trying to get to Joey, but…I don't know what happened. He was hurt. I got him away from the line of fire, and the last time I saw him he was still alive. They took him away. Some place safe, I think. I hope. _

_I'm so sorry. I told you'd I'd take care of him and I couldn't even do that. All I can do is hope like hell that by the time you get this letter, he'll have written you and that he's all right. At the very least, I hope you haven't heard anything from the Navy about him. If you haven't heard anything, that means he's still alive and there's a chance…he could be…maybe he's home._

Ross? He was hurt? What the hell happened to him?

I cover my face for a few moments, feeling sobs rip through me before I can make myself breathe normally again. I haven't gotten any news about him yet. That probably means that he's alive.

I hope.

I wipe my face with the back of my hand, the page before me blurry.

_I let you down, Monica. I can't believe I did this. You asked me to do one simple thing and I couldn't even manage that._

"Oh, Chandler," I whisper. I don't blame him; he has to know that. He's at _war_, for crying out loud. I know that's he's only capable of so much, and someone attacked their ship, what was he supposed to do?

_I love you so much. So God damned much, but if I can't take care of my best friend, how the hell am I supposed to take care of you? I would understand if you wanted nothing to do with me ever again._

My stomach clenches—he's not breaking it off with me, is he? He wouldn't. He can't possibly think that I'll hold this against him. When he finally comes home, it's not as if he has to protect me from Nazis or the Japanese. All he has to do is love me and that will be enough.

_Everything is just so messed up right now. We're all scared and on high-alert. This is the first time in two years anything like this has happened to us, and, maybe I've been naïve to not really consider any of this, but now this damned war seems all too real. Men are dying. Good men, some I've known for longer than I've known you who have been training for this, are dead. What the hell's the point? Why did we spend so much time in basic training, learning all sorts of tactics and maneuvers if none of it matters? _

_I don't know what's going to happen from one day to the next. I feel like I honestly have to expect each day to be my last, and I hate living like this. _

_Promise me something, baby. If anything happens to me, promise you'll find love again. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy, and I can't bear the thought of you spending your life alone because you feel like you'll be betraying my memory. You deserve to be loved_. _You deserve all the good things in life, and if I can't be the one to give them to you, find someone who can. It won't be hard for you, I'm sure. You're wonderful and amazing and perfect, and I'm sure that even now you have men tripping all over themselves for your attention._

I put my head in my hands and sob—I can't read any more of this. I don't think he's breaking up with me, but he's trying his hardest to get me to find someone else.

He's trying to prepare me for his death.

I feel like I'm being punched in the stomach.

I clap my hand over my mouth, standing on shaky legs. I stumble across the lawn, only getting to the side of the house before I drop to my knees, heaving violently, the meager contents of my stomach spewing out of me.

My head drops the ground, resting on the backs of my hands. I can't process all of this right now. Between the thought of my brother being hurt—badly hurt—and Chandler losing his friend Joey and the notion that I could _ever_ love someone as much as I love Chandler…it's too much.

I feel a hand on my back as I sob, Nora's voice suddenly in my ear.

"Honey, what is it? Did something happen to Chandler? Is he hurt?"

I shake my head, holding the letter out to her, trying to get myself under control to no avail. A few minutes later, she's pulling me against her chest, her hand stroking my hair as I cry. "Oh, sweetie. Oh, sweetie, sweetie, sweetie. It'll be all right. I'm sure your brother is fine. We'll find out. We'll make some calls. I'll make a nuisance of myself until we get answers from someone, I promise."

I wrap my arms around her, taking comfort in this woman who has welcomed me into her home, who has been so kind to me, and in so many ways reminds me her son. "But Chandler…"

"Is just doing what he's always done—he's trying to push you away so you don't get hurt. He thinks he's protecting you. Don't give up on him, please. He wouldn't do this if he didn't love you so much, I promise."

"Are you sure?" I ask through my tears, holding on to her tightly.

"He did it when his father died. Just be patient with him, let him know you're not going anywhere."

"Of _course_ I'm not going anywhere. You know that better than anybody."

"I know, honey," she whispers, wrapping her arms around me a little tighter. A moment later, I feel a few of her tears hit my shoulder, and I know that, despite the news of the attack, she has to be immensely relieved to hear from him after all this time.

"He'll come home one day," I whisper, though I'm not sure if it's to her, myself, or the world in general. "He has to. We need him too much."

She nods, and for a long time we sit in the grass, holding each other as we cry.

He's alive. At least we have that.


	29. Chapter 29

June, 1944

_Dear Chandler,_

_Thank God, you're all right. I was so scared. We hadn't heard from you in months, we had no idea what was happening…I can't believe you were attacked. I can't imagine how horrifying that was. And for it to have been bad enough to ruin your ship…_

_I'm so very sorry about your friend. I know your heart must be broken. I can't even imagine your pain. To have to live through that, to see it…I ache for you._

_You have to know that I don't blame you for Ross. Whatever happened wasn't your fault. You can't control the actions of others, and the important thing is that you got him to safety. I haven't heard anything about him yet; no news is good news, right? Until I have reason to believe otherwise, I'm going to imagine that he's in a hospital in England or France somewhere, healing. I'm sure that he has a very good reason for not writing, and as long as we don't get any notification from the Navy, I can live with it._

_What I need to know is how you're holding up. I'm sure you'll say you're fine or that you'll manage, but I know you. You may not believe me, but your penmanship gives you away. I know what you're feeling by how you write it. It's all right if you're scared or angry or anything else. You're living through horror right now, and if anyone has the right to feel a little lost, it's you. Just don't pull away from me. Lean on me. I may not be with you physically, but I'm with you in spirit. Talk to me—I'll hear you. I don't know how, but I'll hear you. Tell me everything. Let me be there for you. _

_Your mother got the letter you sent her a few days after mine arrived. Chandler, I can't tell you how worried she was about you—more so than usual. She walks through the house late at night, so anxious she can't sleep. She pulls out pictures of you and tells me stories. She loves to talk about the night you were born, and how you were the most beautiful baby anyone had ever seen. She shows me the drawings and pictures and stories you wrote when you were little, and I know all about your invisible friend Patrick. You were an amazing little boy, and part of me wishes I could have known you then. Would we still have fallen in love if we'd known each other since we were young?_

_I like to think so._

_I like to think that we're meant to be, that even if you hadn't joined the Navy, we would have met anyway. I'm sure it's an overly romantic notion for me to have, but I just feel as if we're supposed to be together, no matter what._

_Of course, I'm grateful that you're in the Navy if only for my brother's sake. No matter what you may be thinking right now, I know you've done a lot more for him than anyone else ever would have. If nothing else, you went back for him. You pulled him to safety._

_Anita misses you, too. She's much better at hiding it than the rest of us, but she's known you your whole life, too, and she worries. Sometimes I help her out in the kitchen—actually, I get in her way in the kitchen, but that's beside the point—and she tells me about you as a little boy, too, and how one of your favorite things to do was to help her make cookies and then "steal" the ones she'd leave out for you. But she always goes on and on about what a good child you were, so sweet and loving and sensitive. She also told me how you'd make Christmas cookies for her and your family, that they were the hit of your parents' Christmas parties every year, and all I can do is hope that one day you have the chance to do that with our child. It's so easy to picture—you in the kitchen with a tiny version of you on a stepstool, both meticulously rolling out cookie dough and pressing it into shapes. It's so close I can almost touch it sometimes, and it makes my heart ache with longing for you._

_I want that future, Chandler. I know you do, too. We may not have been together very long before you had to leave, but we sure talked an awful lot about our future and having children, and you need to come home so we can start our life together._

_Please, honey, please take care of yourself. I know I ask you that all the time, and I mean it every time, but even more so now. _

_Come home in one piece._

_I love you so very much._

_Yours forever,  
>Monica<em>

August, 1944

_You insufferable bastard. Do you think that I don't know what you're doing? Your mother warned me about this. She said you'd try to push me away out of some misguided attempt to protect me. Protect yourself is more like it. How could you possibly think that pushing me away would hurt less than worrying about you? Do you think that just stops? Do you think it goes away? Do you think that just because you haven't written to me since April I'm somehow over you? It doesn't work that way, buddy._

_I don't know what you're so afraid of—loving me too much? Losing me? You're not going to lose me, not if I have anything to say about it, and believe me, I have plenty to say about it. I love you. Don't you understand that? You don't have a monopoly on suffering, you know. In case you forgot, I've lost quite a few people, too. I don't have any parents; I barely speak to my grandmother; I still haven't heard anything about Ross. That doesn't stop me from loving people. That doesn't mean I push them away in case I might get hurt. Do you know how stupid that is? Do you think my life would be better if I'd never fallen in love with you? That's crazy. My life would be so empty if you'd never been a part of it. It doesn't matter how hard this part is or how much I miss you—it's worth it to be able to know that I have a wonderful guy who's doing his damndest to protect me and our country, no matter how much it scares him. _

_You're so brave, Chandler. I know you don't believe that, but you are. You're scared but you do it anyway. That's what it's all about. Courage doesn't mean that you don't have fear; it just means that you have the strength to overcome it. I know this is hard—it's hard on all of us. That doesn't mean you get to just run away and pretend that we never happened. You need me right now just as much as I need you, and you can't shut me out like this. I'm not going anywhere._

_You're stuck with me; I think I've told you that. We may not have taken our vows, but I'm your wife. For better or for worse. I know this is scary. I know it's scary for me, not knowing where you are or what's happening to you, so it has to be a million times worse for you. We don't know what the future holds. We don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. Your boat could be attacked again. I could get hit by a car. Anything could happen. That's the chance we take. You're worth that risk. Loving you is worth it. I wouldn't trade you for anything, especially not someone else. I don't need safe; I just need you. And if you think I could ever, EVER stop loving you, you've got another think coming. You're a part of me…my other half. It doesn't matter what happens because I will always love you. Do you understand that? ALWAYS. We're forever, and I will never stop believing in you. You can make it through this, and we'll be together again, and none of this will matter because we'll have each other._

_Please…please, I need to hear from you. I don't care what you have to say, I just need to hear it. Being away from you is my own personal hell, and not getting any sort of communication from you is making it worse._

_Love,  
>Monica<em>

October, 1944

_I can't make you write me. I understand that. I just can't believe you'd be so childish. This doesn't make any sense to me. I don't know why you're so hell-bent on ignoring me. You would think I'd done something to actually hurt you. You're only hurting yourself, do you understand that?_

_Do you want the ring back? Is that what you're angling for? Do you want me to suddenly be all right with letting you go? It doesn't work that way. I don't know why you'd ever think that would be possible, but if you don't want me anymore…if you don't want to marry me, you have to let me know. I won't take your silence for an answer. If you want to break up with me, you're going to have to be man enough to do it yourself. _

_This has gone past the point of ridiculous. You're being worse than a child. The silent treatment of all things. I haven't heard from you for five months. I'm only assuming you're actually alive at this point._

_I can't keep doing this with you. I don't have the strength to be in a one-sided relationship across an ocean. I deserve better than this, especially from you. Of all the people in this world, you're the one I'm supposed to be able to count on. Do you not love me anymore? Is that it? Have you found another girl? Have you found ten other girls? Are they keeping your warm at night? Do they make it easier for you?_

_If you've found someone else, the least you could do is be honest. Let me know so that I can at least move out of your mother's house. I wouldn't want to get in your way._

_If you're not going to write me, at least write your mother. This is killing her. You don't have to contact me, but she needs to know that you're all right. She needs to hear from you. Stop moping over yourself long enough to think about her once in a while. Just a quick, "Hi, how are you? I'm alive so don't worry" would be enough at this point._

_Oh, and in case you care at all, Ross is alive. He's home now. He's going to be in the hospital for a while yet as he recovers, but he's all right. _

_Despite everything, I love you.  
>Monica<em>

November, 1944

Chandler

I fold up Monica's letters, having read them so many times that the paper is almost falling apart and the writing is faded. I put my head in my hands and sigh. What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I doing this? It seemed like such a good idea all those months ago when everything was so fresh and scary and I was still completely on edge over everything that had happened, but now…

Monica's so mad at me, and who can blame her? I've ruined it. I've ruined everything. She hates me.

But, again, who could blame her? I've been treating her so badly that I deserve it.

I'm actively trying to ruin the best thing that's ever happened to me and for what? So I don't hurt her by dying? Am I really stupid enough to think that behaving this way will somehow make it easier? It sure as hell hasn't done anything for me. I've been a miserable son of a bitch to everyone around me. It's getting old, even to me. At least when I'm communicating with her, part of me feels like we're close. Now…I can feel every inch of distance between us, and I don't care for it.

She deserves so much better than what I'm giving her right now.

It's not as if I haven't been writing her. I have; I've written a dozen letters or more in the last few months. I just don't have the courage to send them. The longer I wait to send one, the harder it gets, and I know it's just making her madder at me. I don't know what to do to fix it, either. I don't know that sending her a letter is going to make things better.

But...is she insane? Give me back the ring? I don't want it back. It's hers. It's hers forever.

Maybe that's just the kick in the pants I need, though.

I want to marry her. I want to be by her side for all time. If I don't get my act together, I'm going to lose her. Maybe a few months ago I could talk myself into believing that was for the best, but damn it, I'm selfish. I love her so much, even after all this time apart. She's everything I need; she will always be everything I need. She's part of me, and without her I'm nothing. I'm stupid for thinking I could do this alone. I need her. If she's willing to stand by me through all of this—the war, the horror, the separation, and my complete idiocy—I'd be the world's biggest fool to let her go.

I actually already am the world's biggest fool.

And…Ross is alive. Thank God in heaven, Ross is alive. He's home. He's still mending, but he's alive. I feel as if the weight of the world has been lifted off my shoulders. I didn't completely let him down. I didn't completely let _her_ down.

I sit up suddenly, nearly whacking my head on the bunk above me in the process. I dig through my belongings until I find some paper and a pen. I turn on my tiny bedside lamp and start writing.

I have to fix this.


End file.
